Danielle Rose
At first I want to imagine fireflies like a carpet of love unraveling. Perhaps I could follow dangling threads to the things that have caused harm. Instead I think of how water engulfs. When younger I might have watched a body throw itself from a high bridge like picking stitches from a healing wound. To my eye just a tiny little dot of tumbling. I wonder what the water saw or did not see. I wonder if the current just continued. Is this the metaphor? Hanging itself like a neat hat on a peg? The hat was still placed by a hand. Worn on a head. I am borrowing reasons to keep a calm face. Everything everywhere is already engulfed. Listen—become your own witness in the way loam watches itself give birth.
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Danielle Rose lives in Massachusetts. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in The Shallow Ends, Sundog Lit, Pidgeonholes, Barren Magazine & Glass Poetry.