Fireflies

I miss fireflies. In Ghana there were plenty.

Where I'm from,

fireflies are stars, torn

down by prayer,

they

form a procession of light

through the night,

pursuing the thick perfume of

salt until they've

found

the pining

the wretched

the lonely hearts with their lonely thoughts,

and they lead them to places of peace

the window sills of secret lovers

to the glow of a coal pot roasting corn

the homes prodigals hurriedly left and

now ache to return.

But where I am now

the wretched stay retching,

the lonely stay lonely,

and the lost stay lost

because there is no perfume of salt

in the bone-dry air to pray

the stars down,

and the fireflies can't come

to lead us where

we need to be.