One blind night in July twenty years ago
I lay in a field in Nevers Park, slivers of old hay
itching at my legs. Drunken uncles had split
the house with screams as they confronted
their realities and, in doing so, made me
hide from my own. Now gazing north at a grove
of birch in undress, beholding soft, clear skin,
patches of hope across the small, inverted world,
I heard a brook trickling in the darkness.
Curse me in rapture, I thought, the signs were
clear—I would leave at eighteen.
Then dew dampened the earth, crowned every
wildflower and weed. Fireflies invaded. I smiled
and watched the tiny flashes of their cameras.
Terence McCaffrey teaches high school English in Connecticut. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Connecticut River Review, Freshwater, and Helix. It has also been featured on Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY. He received a M.A.L.S. degree in Humanities from Wesleyan University and a B.A. from the University of Hartford. He lives in Middletown, CT, with his wife and two children.