by A.M. Broadous

April 2019

If I rush fast enough into the oily black

night, I could still catch falling stars before

they graced the sod with their swift and

hot embrace.

                        I could cap them in mason


jars like so many fireflies I once

witnessed in D.C. when the raw

light of dreams first wandered into my

life. For hours, they tap-danced in the


deep sheets of sky while summer

tipped its favorite hat and crickets

held their breath.

                                And the stars quietly

appeared, their bright secret unfolded—


a story of death long before I could

scarcely wish upon their winking eyes

like the small creatures of the dark.


But still, I run, arms outstretched, as


the hunter after the food of his table,

the wild believer, the child aching for

the sweet milk,

                            the food of his dreams.