There are fireflies here
Spaced like twinkle lights
Stationary truths
Of gods gone dim
And bright again
Here we make time
Spinning moments
Into webs of memory
Stretched beneath lies
Forgotten and told again
Time is only our blood
Marking checkpoints
Along the way
As if the ticks amounted
To anything worth remembering
Blood makes us real
Identities reached and left behind
Pulsing its own name
Like a hungry demon
Starving to exist again
Real as bones
Frozen in earth
Arranged as wheel spokes
The past is a lightless suitor
We believe
And love.
Brandyce Ingram is a writer and jazz-head in Austin, Texas. Her work has appeared in The Esthetic Apostle, The Austin Chronicle, Sand Hills Literary Magazine, OxMag, Cathexis Northwest Press, The Write Launch, and elsewhere. She thinks Jupiter is the loveably drunk (and gassy) uncle of the galaxy and Lisa Simpson should be president.
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