I call my parents out to see
the fireflies, and they come,
she in her carnelian robe,
he in his business suit leaning
on his Masai mahogany cane.
We three watch fireflies fraternize
across the wide and pampered lawn.
They mate oxygen with luciferin
make light within their bodies
without heat.

The connection blinks like foreign
cities from jets, each life
impenetrable in the gargantuan
grid of the universe, lives
luminescent, a call to reproduce,
a call to protect, a call to eat.

My parents are dying. They are light
replaced by larvae glowing from birth.
They are cold and want to go in, step up
the stairs one at a time on trembling legs,
blown from side to side like the light of fireflies.