Between the Sparks

When I hear people talk about

“Names Written In Lights,” all I picture

Are hot, Fourth of July Nights—

Sugar, coursing through sun-burned bodies,

Fireflies flaring and colors bursting in the sky,

And the snarling, sulphur glow

Of sparklers burning down to thumbs.

And wide-eyed me, leaves a trail of smoke,

A gunpowder ghost, spelling out my name

In streaks of fading gold,

Swallowed by setting sun but sealed

Across the back of my eyelids.

Did I have nothing else to say, I wonder?

“This is what my parents named me!”

Burning, snarling letters, now turned pink.

Did I already know that in the face

Of that expansive night

I had nothing else to say, and no time—

The fuse already lit, the phosphorus aglow—

I have no choice but to yell into space,

“This Is Who I Am!”

And then I close my eyes.

Breathe in the ecstatic smells, the cricket song,

And wait—for the imprint

On the dark to fade away.

And there I am. Bugbitten.

Unfreezing the night, and laughing

With my friends, who are writing

Their names, too, like eighth-grade

Vandals on the sky, barefoot and running

In between the sparks.