Rockets

The fireworks, they make me cry. And not only because they remind me of you, of your cool summer smell of bangles and hairspray, of the fact that it's now been three long years since you've gone, but because all of this--the house, just across the tracks, that you never saw; the children, long-legged and sweaty and heavy and exhausted; the apostrophe moon--is so beautiful, so temporal, that I want to pull it up against me, pull it closer, as the sky blanches and blushes and swells, as the crowd howls, as the ashes, caught on the lisp of the breeze, fall in my hair and on you and on everything.