Gardener
- Nov 18, 2020
- 1 min read
by Madeleine Corley
Last night I buoyed a lightning bug after it fell in olive oil. Forty five minutes, we sat, its wings soiled and incapable of flight. I counted hundreds of bright, glittered bursts while it preened on the tip of my finger. I’m not saying I’ll grow anything grand: piano, hyacinth, meaningful gestures. There are worlds I rarely watch. I do so little with my hands.
Madeleine Corley (she/her) is a writer by internal monologue and adores her Mystery Machine converse. She currently serves as Poetry Editor at Barren Magazine. Her work has appeared/is forthcoming at Levee Magazine, Rejection Lit, Knights Library Mag, Plum Recruit, and more. You can find her on Twitter @madelinksi and wrotemadeleine.com.
