Nearly nine and still the sun’s not slunk

into its nightly digs. The burnt meat smell

of mid-week cookouts and wet grass

hangs in the air like loose familiar summer

garb. Standing by the magnolia tree, I think

if I were to live as long as she did, I’d have

eleven more years. And if I were to live as long

as him, I’d have forty-nine. As long as him,

I’d be dead already. As long as her, this

would be my final year. There’s a strange

contentment to this countdown, a nodding

to this time, where I get to stand under

the waxy leaves of the ancient genus, a tree

that appeared before even the bees, and

watch as fireflies land on the tough tepals

until each broad flower glows like a torch-lit

mausoleum. They call the beetle’s conspicuous