Fireworks
from GHOSTWORDS
By Crisosto Apache
But those violet blossoms of fire, — those awesome
fire works in the sky, to hold them, he would give
his life. – R. Akutagawa, 8. Sparks
an ignition of colorful sparks bloom at dusk, as I begin
the long night dance into dawn, scruples of tiny embers
are released, and from the surging palms I grip the yucca
sword, now used to shield and consecrate my movements,
the sparks ascend forming the decadent bouquets separating
form from the deepening indigo that collides with the stars,
at the edge of the all widening ebb, I am pulled toward
the inevitable black sky, hearing the hiss of twinkling ghosts,
long since burnt
upon midnight, the intermittent crackling bursts releases
a superficial haze, as the distant detonations encumber
the somber deadness of my conquered existence, in a display
of dissolute coloration, the light surges and hides a type of
of meaning, I tuck away from my relatives, this celebration
is only meant for those unlike me, a celebration recognizing
that awful American, Fourth of July
Originally published by, The RUMPUS, November 2018
