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.
Danielle Rose lives in Massachusetts. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in The Shallow Ends, Sundog Lit, Pidgeonholes, Barren Magazine & Glass Poetry.