A worksheet of iridescent geometry.
Silver globes with no latitudes
to follow, as we were taught.
Its body the width of my #2 pencil.

In second grade, I held a funeral,
cradling the insect in magnolia petals.
Blue, black. Pink, white. A green-
bronze, not found in my crayon box.

I cannot remember the words
I said but the act sparked copycats,
children scouring the playground
for bugs that required rites.

Snails with white bubbles oozing
from their shells, even spiders,
who once repulsed, were now laid
in ceremony, gilded with invented eulogies.

We taught ourselves to grieve with
enthusiasm, learned the ABCs and
multiplication of afterlives,
counted the wingspans of time.

I knew my dragonfly was not the same thing
as the blurring darts over the school pond.
It was the photo of grandpapa in our kitchen,
a pattern of shadows and light.

I could look upon it and feel sadness
the way I spelled a long, difficult word,
losing myself in the effort of picking
the next letter; forgetting the meaning.

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Devony Hof is a poet and playwright from Palo Alto, CA, now based in Chicago. Her poems can be found in Right Hand Pointing, The Fantastic Other and Moonday Mag, among others. She has received a Best of the Net nomination and the Edward Shuman Award for Best Honors Thesis at Northwestern University. Follow her on Instagram @devonyhof or check out her website, devonyhof.com.

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