This slow Saturday
breeze in my brain
turned over
an old photograph
of us
on my parent’s roof,
Fourth of July.
There I was,
deep in the crook of your neck,
my gentle grin
holding the secret of your scent
and my eyes
the knowledge of our daughter,
beneath our bodies,
sleeping on that tiny couch
my mom bought her for Christmas.
Funny, I don’t recall seeing a single firework until
we stood to climb down the ladder.
You went first, I turned to follow, but just then—
a single flower of light
erupted inside the darkness—
Expanding
and then
collapsing
into a ghost of itself
that only I remember.
I’ve had many independence days since you left,
each one
a single point
inside the cosmos
of my mind—
Expanding
Sobriety Poet 