The Boy who Identified with Fireflies

by R. Nikolas Macioci

They pepper the dark with miniature, gold
torches. I am nine years old and have nothing
to do but carry a Mason jar into the backyard,
unscrew the top, and use the bottom to catch
these docile bugs. They are night's yellow
beacons, easy to grab from blue-black sky.

I have caught a dozen or so in my jar.
They make no sound, and it doesn't disturb
them when I flick my finger against the glass.
I call them lightning bugs, but the book says
they are fireflies. They blink like amber eyes.
I've seen some kids tear off the abdomen
and wear it on their finger like a ring. I cannot
be so cruel. Soon I will turn them loose, but
for a while longer I want to look at their flashing
beams, captured bits and pieces of sun.

I've ended with a pretty good catch. Now
it's time to open the lid and let them go
I recap the jar. My dad yells from the porch.
I slump toward the steps, wonder why
someone doesn't free me from his mean streak
that keeps the lid screwed tight
on a jar that suffocates what is captured.