Mayfly nymphs might have sensed
the interrupting gods, my small,
inquisitive fingers wondering
at their triple tails, pulsing in the water.
I, too, would burrow deep inside my bed.
Emerge to fight each new year, persona
upon persona, new shields to wear.
Beneath rotting weed, perhaps
the nymphs deep-breathed through
thirty molts without the sensibility of pain.
Spring is nearly over. Nymphs rise
in flight to stick upon the bending reeds,
then crawl from brittle-winged exuviae
toward the promise of a rampant dance
amid the floating pollen. The wind
is cavalier. For a single day, imago clasps
imago as light disappears. Eggs laid down,
silent bodies lying in mass graves.
A filigree memorial remains, transparent,
dry to air. Uncolored wings flashed
by sunlight, a stained-glass window
with no stories told. My picture window
has a dash of color, here and there. But
never a swell or crack between my hips.
Mayfly summer gives way to harvest,
a flowing cast of thousands. For me,
there are no children.
No grandchildren, wild-waving, along
the path beside the brimming stream.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 28, Issue 2.
Emma-Jane Peterson lives in the UK. Her poems are published in BoomerLitMag, Sunlight Press, Halfway Down The Stairs, Clayjar Review, Naugatuck River Review, Metphrastics, and London Grip, among others.
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