Fireflies of the Waste

By Tom Kelly

At dusk, orphans flock to the abandoned chapel,
an assembly formed by starvation, from scabs & stuttering ribs,
memories of parents slamming doors to ruined flats
& the creak of deadbolts in their ear canals. The rag-clad,
blister-lipped, the blighted faces wrapped in leather sacks,

they gather around a trio of Mason jars
that pulse with the concentrated light of a firefly swarm
&, seizing palms, shape a circle to envelop the glow. Fear
or raw reverence inspires silence, though they know
nothing of this sanctuary’s original function & their language

has abandoned every allusion to God. Past midnight,
the elder children will flee for the causeways &—stalking
a caravan’s rumble—they’ll release the flashing specimens,
so they might raise hatchets to rob a tired trader
lost in all that radiance. As the sun’s last rays recede,

members of the congregation take turns crying out
their most provocative spoils—better bread, a new canteen,
shoes that fit, names for the flickering bulbs in the sky;
one among them, downcast, contemplates
the possibility of an end to hunger, or a name for it.

—

Tom Kelly

The writer’s fiction and poetry appear in Ninth Letter, Redivider, Passages North, ALR, Moon City Review, and other journals. He lives in Tallahassee, Florida. You can follow him on Instagram here, and on Twitter @tomvkelly.