Nothing Is Moving
Hannah Stephenson
Beaded curtain of fireflies,
hedges lighting up at their edges,
spray of sparks from a mirrorball’s
slow rotation. Nothing is moving,
I could say. But, God, that is so
inaccurate. No turning shrubs,
sure, and the road masters
corpse pose, plays dead
so well, and the darkness
steadies itself against our
planet, as a teacher, dizzy in
the heat at the end of the
school year, might put her hand
against the globe on her desk.
All revolves, you have introduced
yourself to space, a thing not
there, you keep trying to eat
your blind spots, adorn yourself
with cataract sequins, leopard-
proud. Everything promises
to dissolve, fireflies to you
mean summer, mean youth,
but this firefly on your arm,
flickering, you will never see
again after this second, the
long-slumbering lightning bugs
of last summer have given
the dirt the secret to making light.