Nighttime, and the mayflies rise
from the egg-salty river
to flood and flit
in the puddle of lamplight.
Such pale waxwork and tiny glass beads
and filaments of sleek white legs
gyrate in the beams of the only moon they will ever touch.
They only have one day to live.
And unknowingly, in their fear of the night,
they are dancing in it,
and someone notices their poetry.
from the egg-salty river
to flood and flit
in the puddle of lamplight.
Such pale waxwork and tiny glass beads
and filaments of sleek white legs
gyrate in the beams of the only moon they will ever touch.
They only have one day to live.
And unknowingly, in their fear of the night,
they are dancing in it,
and someone notices their poetry.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
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