a poem

Prayer

The night I sat on my father’s lap
and watched the fireworks across the city
someone in that crowded stadium
was screaming frantically for
more magic, more lights in the sky!
The ashes were falling
onto faces, and hair
like black essays on beauty,
crumbling on contact.
Some pieces still ripe from the
the explosion
singeing arms and hair.

Or the skyless day my sister and I spent in the
blackberry fields.
Reaching into the deep green wall
over and over,
my fingertips bled,
the fruit too perfect
not to pluck.

Let these things be ours.
Small stings we came here for.