Grammar
Remember the time I rushed into the house
and woke everyone, hurrying you and the kids
to the jeep? Where, Daddy? I wouldn’t say.
Are you sure? you asked.
Just come quickly.
I drove in silence,
stopped by the ravine and turned
the engine and headlights off,
opened the moon roof and windows.
The kids climbed out onto the roof and hood
still wiping sleep from their eyes.
At first, nothing. Then under the constellated sky
fireflies poured from the grasses into the night air.
We sat for a long time watching
the lights vibrating in the dark.
A car rolled by, wheels chewing gravel.
The silver headlights swept the field
just long enough to return us
to the side of a road,
overlooking a weed-filled ravine.
It’s always this way—
no grammar to sorrow or fears. Just the song
of the cicadas to lift us from sleep, just the moon,
just winged stars by the thousands searching
for one another and disappearing
into a clear night.
Jack J. Chielli is a writer living in Frederick, Maryland. He has an MA in poetry from Wilkes University and a BA in Writing from Roger Williams University. He was editor of his collegiate literary magazine, Aldebaran. Jack worked as a journalist and bureau chief before taking a position as communications director for the Allegheny County Controller’s office. He has been working in higher education for the last 25 years for both a community college and several universities. He is currently vice president of enrollment management, marketing and communications for Mount St. Mary’s University in Maryland. His poetry has been published in the Martin Lake Journal, Schuylkill Valley Journal and Coal Hill Review