My Mother Sees Fireflies

By Saúl Hernández

She stands outside, watches

            the roof of the house incinerate

                        like newspaper caught on fire.

Copper chloride flares flash

            bloom into a blaze. I watch

                        behind her, the shimmers remind me 

of grandfather. How he lit a cigarette,

            how flames touched the tip, how he

                        inhaled smoke, let out fire. Isn’t it beautiful,

she says. The firestorm brews and

            she laughs at sounds of sirens.

                        The roof of our house collapses,

sparks flutter into the air. 

            She laughs harder, speckles

                        of ash fall on us, she twirls,

spirals of fire. People watch her—

            my mother the firework show.

                        She keeps on repeating, Ya soy libre.

Ya soy libre. Ya soy libre, papá— libre.

            She turns, grabs my hands, tells me: dance

                        with me. We spin in circles, our burning

house blurs into a field of hibiscus flowers.

            Mother lets go of my hands, I catch my balance.

                        Flakes of debris come down, she tells me to

make a wish on one of the fireflies.

            I close my eyes, mother sings the song she

                        played in the house the day her father died:

Y volver volver, volver

            a tus brazos otra vez.

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Saúl Hernández is a queer writer from San Antonio, TX. He was raised by undocumented parents. Saúl has an MFA in Creative Writing from The University of Texas at El Paso. He’s a finalist for Palette Poetry 2020 Spotlight Award. Also, a finalist for the 2019 Submerging Writer Fellowship, Fear No Lit. His work is featured in Pidgeonholes, The Acentos Review, Cosmonauts Avenue, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, etc. More of him at www.saulhernandez.net