Nothing could be finer than these fireflies,
magical as when my sister spilled me from
our too-hot house in late July, and taught
me how to fill a candy jar with light.
We’ve forgotten blankets but no bother, she says,
let me be your lounge. I am ageless, playing games,
heaving laughter in that way, at this late stage,
I was sure my body had misplaced the knowledge for.
I want to bend onto these getting-older knees,
and press a pact between this ground and the rest of me –
to swear on slicked back hair, on the future in our kitchen
that we haven’t lived in yet, to never, ever, ever grow too old for this.