Maura

17

The truth is that everything broke this summer

(the dishwasher, the air conditioner,

and maybe me

I’m undecided,

because breaking takes more effort than I was willing to exert—

I slipped and fell and bruised

but I’ve never been a victim)

July rolls in and I am a whole year older

the number 17 only makes a slight difference
because 
it’s synonymous with “on the cusp of something”

and I grasp at ideas and Big Things with capital letters

like fireflies that flit around this corner of suburbia

They could leave, they should leave,

we have nothing that they want

and I kill them by accident

while trying to sample a bit of their magic

but they stay, or maybe they don’t,

I can’t tell them apart.

So I sit here in the heat

washing dishes as the fireflies shine

and I feel painfully 17.