My sister sees fireflies on our mothers yahrzeit—
It’s Mom, she tells me. The beads of light
hum-dum above crabgrass and dandelions
like particles of soul spread out between
Bala Cynwyd and Orlando. When our mother died,
I didn’t see any light at all, just the darkening
dewdrops of blood on her sheet, as if her body needed
to be empty before the soul could leave it.
I wanted to cup her chin, its small bud like the light
of a firefly and free it into the sky.
Laura Ohlmann has an MFA from the University of Central Florida. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus, The Lindenwood Review, The Maine Review, GASHER, South Carolina Review, South Florida Poetry Journal and others. She’s one of the Associate Editors of West Trade Review. She enjoys traveling in her converted Honda Element and biking up mountains with her partner and dog.