Thursday, July 5, 2012

Conflicted By Fireworks

Like dandelions or chandeliers,
shards of stars are scattered across the sky. 
They crackle and splinter into weeping willows
or blast and cast light on the children's faces,
as they look up with joy and dreams,
holding the grass between their toes as
they watch these graceful explosions in the sky
on safe soil, bathed in radiant liberty.

Between the backs of lawn chairs,
one boy reclines and I can only see
his hand brightened by blasts
with two fingers, a barrel
and one thumb, cocked.
With each red, white and blue burst
his hand recoils from his pistol.
The heavens are his shooting ground.
The thunder echoes from his trigger.
His freedom shouts bang bang bang . . .

I close my eyes and the night is still glowing
as blasts break daylight upon
the arid mountains surrounding my village.
I hold my prayer cap as I run through the streets
as I see women running like shadows
as their black burkas flow between
the streets now turned to rubble.
I am half deaf and my head whirls
from bombs and the ringing of my ears.

I open my eyes to see
in the fading light of fireworks
ghastly skeletons of smoke
ushered off stage by the wind.
The boy put his hand down
fingers still smoking
because in his country
those sounds don't mean
the same thing.
These immaculately virgin skies
are pregnant with thunder
only on the joyous day
of this country's birth.
Explosions in heaven
are a Grand Finale
and here he applauds
and I wonder if I ever could.

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