Although we watched, the city’s stock display
seemed still and tame, a galaxy away
from where we saw our sky explode with fire.
We’d always choose our smaller, private choir
of penny crackers, bombs bought for a quarter,
the rockets someone smuggled from the border
and lit out of the nosy neighbors’ view.
With every year, it was the same and new,
the rituals of barbecue and soda,
the fights to light the grand Chinese pagoda
or be the one to spark the biggest flame.

At seven, nine, thirteen, we couldn’t name
just what it was that gave them their dark powers,
that held us hot and swatting bugs for hours
while howling sparks and flying discs of light
shot past our dads and threatened to ignite
the trees. Whatever it was, we understood
that grown-ups felt it too: in Hollywood,
the artful angling of the camera’s eye
moved from a kiss up to a blazing sky
to show that love was powerful and grand
as all the Carolina contraband
that filled our yard.

Like love, it may have been
the tantalizing risk which drew us in,
our traded tales of eyes blown out by glass,
a severed hand found hidden in the grass,
two fingers lost to slowness at the fuse.
We told of what we couldn’t bear to lose
and knew that, as we swore the truth, we lied.
We were convinced beloved China Bride,
the Taj Mahal, the flickering Hummingbird
were innocent, no matter what we heard.

After the best explosions, no one spoke
but watched the avenue fill up with smoke.
Standing in awe along the ashy walk,
even the adults gave up their talk
of mortgages and paying for our college
and set aside the awful grown-up knowledge
that we’d learn soon enough. And though the spark
which screamed the loudest in the purple dark
shrank down to less than nothing, once complete,
a little pile of litter in the street,
each burning arc gave rise to new belief.
We loved the change in us, however brief.