Anne Brontë

If I were an insect, I might be a lightning bug

but you would call me a firefly.

If you were an insect you might be a crane fly.

I don’t know what I would call you.

You’re not my kind of daddy longlegs.

 

If you were a crane fly your legs would be deciduous,

meaning: tending to fall off, particularly at maturity.

You might still have them

but you’d be getting close to losing them.

We’re getting close to losing our immaturity.

 

I bought a book about leaves for my father

but I want to keep it for myself.

We live in the bush now and it takes too long to get anywhere

so I might just stay up here this year,

carrying his book with me along the trails behind our house.

I’ll buy a pair of binoculars and spy on all the birds

and think of them as my friends because the neighbour’s cats won’t talk to me,

they just stare at me through the windows until I move

and then hunch down under the porch.

 

If we were Brontë sisters,

I would be Anne and you would be Emily.

Nobody wants to be Charlotte.