Summer nights on the porch,

conversation would begin

with fair-weather hymns

and corn-field benedictions--

no hint of the apocalypse at first.

Then, my uncle would spit,

and it would be time to preach

about my sister.

No letter had arrived with postage 

stamp from far-away places--

no foot-prints on the dusty road,

love, coming back.

Coughs, sighs, scraping of chairs

evolved into a murmur

that became as strong as

the whirlwind that took Elijah--

how my sister with painted face

and red high-heels should be 

banished forever.

My uncles agreed and said amen,

but before I went to bed

I'd catch a handful of fireflies

 as prayers in my window

to light her way home.

By LaVern Spencer McCarthy

Website: https://lavernmccarthy33@hotmail.com