Fireworks
The kids, like the fireworks,
are ready to explode.
The old folks sit on hay bales applying
mosquito repellent.
The aerosol spray is oily
when rubbed on,
liquid citronella and cinnamon.
The names are too beautiful to burn:
Cracklers
Stone Roses
The Queen’s Crown
Nest of Spiders
Azure Fountain
Monkey Machine
Sparks, like escaped moths,
fly into the sycamore tree.
Red pebbles and blue stickers,
booms, pops, and the smell of punk.
Always one last sputter,
to leave the audience happy.
The kids are minotaurs,
half child, half adult.
They announce each beautiful name,
light it up and jump away.
Sometimes a flame remains
at the end,
a birthday candle that refuses
to be snuffed,
refuses to accept the added year.
Soon enough the kids will fly
like sparks,
to lives without us.
But tonight when I dream of them,
I am alight with happiness.
When I turn over in sleep,
my skin smells like
apple and citronella pie.
The Louisville Review, No 78, Fall 2015
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