Burst<\/p>\n
We are too low to smell the castaway smoke of the
\nJuly 4th fireworks shouldered by higher winds, like a loosened
\ncloud of mud underwater churned from passing propeller.
\nI never liked sitting in the chairs to watch, sat instead
\non the ground, picking at dandelions, or a stray twig.
\nYou could rate how extravgant each year’s show would be,
\nand I the roughest stickler. But I don’t even know what to
\nthink of them anymore, a shallow promise to the air,
\nthe 11 o’clock air wrapped and lacking shimmer around me.
\nMom always had to turn the heat on in the car, even in summer.
\nSometimes I would try climbing one of the willows in the park,
\nas if I could be closer to the elevation, the explosive distance
\nof fireworks. The spastic and irrelevant shatter of light,
\nits color dear and blind to the black, in sober audience.
\nMy sister has gotten used to the gunshot blare, discharged from
\na barrel in the sky, but after the color flutters outward,
\nlike a forgotten alarm for caution.<\/p>\n
In these moments, I think we become narrow-minded, in a tunnel
\nof dark, if not more than usual. Are fireworks the dreams of astronauts,
\nin hope for the fleeting glimpse of galaxies beyond their
\ninhabitable reach? Or are they the feeling you hope a
\nloved one receives when you hold them close? <\/p>\n
A color for every emotion we paint ourselves with.
\nSitting withdrawn behind the Woodmere Library, I can see
\nbeyond Boardman Lake the pyrotechnics catapulted
\nover Silver Lake, and I am like the billowing, shredded
\nsmoke, silent or in awe of my former self.
\nI wish I could see how the fireworks dye my face
\nin festivity. Every crack and boom inflicting the air
\nwith its counterfeit sunsets, some lasting less than
\nfive seconds, was worth coming down to crowded parking lots
\nto see, even if my ears felt diffused after the finale. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":281,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-10733","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-marathon-poem"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10733","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/281"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=10733"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10733\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15497,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10733\/revisions\/15497"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=10733"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=10733"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=10733"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}