Burst

We are too low to smell the castaway smoke of the
July 4th fireworks shouldered by higher winds, like a loosened
cloud of mud underwater churned from passing propeller.
I never liked sitting in the chairs to watch, sat instead
on the ground, picking at dandelions, or a stray twig.
You could rate how extravgant each year’s show would be,
and I the roughest stickler. But I don’t even know what to
think of them anymore, a shallow promise to the air,
the 11 o’clock air wrapped and lacking shimmer around me.
Mom always had to turn the heat on in the car, even in summer.
Sometimes I would try climbing one of the willows in the park,
as if I could be closer to the elevation, the explosive distance
of fireworks. The spastic and irrelevant shatter of light,
its color dear and blind to the black, in sober audience.
My sister has gotten used to the gunshot blare, discharged from
a barrel in the sky, but after the color flutters outward,
like a forgotten alarm for caution.

In these moments, I think we become narrow-minded, in a tunnel
of dark, if not more than usual. Are fireworks the dreams of astronauts,
in hope for the fleeting glimpse of galaxies beyond their
inhabitable reach? Or are they the feeling you hope a
loved one receives when you hold them close?

A color for every emotion we paint ourselves with.
Sitting withdrawn behind the Woodmere Library, I can see
beyond Boardman Lake the pyrotechnics catapulted
over Silver Lake, and I am like the billowing, shredded
smoke, silent or in awe of my former self.
I wish I could see how the fireworks dye my face
in festivity. Every crack and boom inflicting the air
with its counterfeit sunsets, some lasting less than
five seconds, was worth coming down to crowded parking lots
to see, even if my ears felt diffused after the finale.