A Child's Passage Into Adulthood
Should trigger fireworksin the night sky—
one color for the way she jumped
and squealed in the contraband sprinkler
at that place we rented down in Bessemer.
The way she booty-danced rhythm
in front of speakers still taller
than she—an expectant blast of light and magic
ought to occur. One skyrocket for the arms
and backs of the old green hand-me-down couch,
to cradle the left behind impression
of her constant to-and-fro climbs.
Her transition should mark new galaxies.
We should feel the vibration in the cores
of our chest cavities—a physical reaction
should resonate. When we lie down
at night, we shouldn’t smart from
the silence so devastatingly,
thinking we missed the storm.
Sparks which faded before
our eyes had time to adjust.
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