Daytime Fireworks

It was the summer you burnt two acres of a corn field and almost the rest of town.  You, the neighbor kid, and the pastor’s son shot off all the good fireworks we bought on the way back from the beach.  You thought 2:30 pm in late July would be the best time to watch roman candles explode. I was driving back from MEPS with the recruiter and we could both see the smoke from the highway.  He had an appointment to get to, and I thought the smoke column was beautiful.  Some untamed dragon heading towards heaven where our house should be.  The sheriff and the farmer told our father that no charges were being pressed.  That evening we sat on the roof and smoked stolen cigarettes.  I told you about the oath I just took and what to expect for bootcamp.  Shirtless and with smoke still in your lungs, you told me how you hid for a while under your bed then ran outside to help the firefighters.  The sky became clear enough to see the stars, and in the moonlight, I could see ash still in your hair.

— MATTHEW MERSON

Matthew Merson is high school science teacher in the lowcountry of South Carolina where he lives and plays with his spouse, two kids, and several dogs.  His other work can be found or forthcoming in Apocalypse Confidential; The Basilisk Tree; Poetry South; and others.