The Clothing Designer

She was a famous designer
of clothes for fireflies.
One summer night,
We stood by a fence
Watching fireflies light up
Like cigarettes, then vanish
Like flames on spent matches.
A seahorse tattooed
To the side of her neck
Drifted across her throat and chin
Until it reached the outskirts
Of her lips, then dove
Into the darkness of her
Mouth’s moist cove
Where it rubbed its mane
Against her slippery tonsils.
After we gave up
Counting fireflies,
She admitted she
Liked to eat unicorn
But not dog.
She kept a collection of
Their horns in her walk-in closet
And on her birthday
Took them out and
Walked around the city
Looking for old lovers to stab.
We watched as fireflies
Perched on gravestones
Or mated inside engraved epitaphs.
They were dying faster
Than that evening.
One by one, their lights switched off,
Sometimes turning back on,
But mostly off as if
There was a blackout.
Fireflies flew into her mouth
And down her esophagus
And their sparks were
Tiny campfires
On the hillsides of her heart.
I knew if I asked
She would hide with me
Behind a gravestone
And pretend we were dead.
Then when we got up again,
We’d be so glad to be alive
That our eyes would
Light up like fireflies,
Except when we blinked.