Pyrotechnics

by Zinta Aistars



As it happened, the fuses blew,
burning our fingertips –
passing fireworks from hand to hand.
Sparklers fizzing, a childish joy,
living stars sizzling white light,
writing our names across the sky.
It’s a common need:
the desire to leave an imprint,
sign a name to a lifetime
before it turns to the grit and gravel,
bone chips, of memory pounded to dust.
Passage of time, clouded by old desires,
an irresistible rewriting of history.
I would rather have been
a finer grain of intoxicant,
enough to fuel moon rockets
beneath your skin.
You would rather have dared
to reach for more meaning,
holding out the courage of a straw man
playing with matches.
The cripplings of human nature,
Don Quixotes fighting windmills.
Everyday fare, but we play instead
with sparklers, pyrotechnics,
blazes of Roman candles,
cones of fire, fountains of liquid flame,
writing a momentary name across sky,
there, then not.