Emily wishes into onions
and cries on falling stars.
She lies down on the interstate
to look closely at the cars.
When darkness descends upon her
she extinguishes the flame
of the fragile, fragrant candle
upon which is carved her name.
She feels evil eyes upon her
on this firefly night in June,
a crying, naked, blood-soaked nun
quoting Ferlinghetti at the moon.
