Lightning Bugs

(8.25.17)

 

Most nights I roll the hours

I should be sleeping through my fingers

like beads on a rosary.

 

I don’t pray so

I have no hymnals or ancient scripture to

soften the day I’m trying to leave behind.

 

Some nights it feels like

ghosts haunt me,

collecting my dreams like lightning bugs.

 

Other nights I hear Tolstoy

reminding me the fault we find in others

is what we see in ourselves.

 

Halfway through the rosary

the morning sun rises.

 

My lashes become cobwebs.

The skin under my eyes a requiem.

 

I spend my daytime hours

collecting the sorrows of others.

 

Maybe if I learned how to pray,

I’d pull out that rosary in my drawer and

sleep would finally find me.

 

Maybe if I found a god I believed in

I could take back those lightning bugs and

turn them into angels.

 

©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved

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