QUIET FIREWORKS - 1

JULY 4th

My earliest memory is of holding up a sparkler
High up to the darkest sky
Some 4th of July spectacular
I shook it with an urgency
I'll never ever be able to repeat

                                              Vic Chestnut Panic Pure

j

Riding into the high forest for a crawdad hunt.  The ladies have wind blown pony-tails, expert eye make-up, and more than a bit of stubble on their chins.  Alex and I are curled in the backseat, sleepy from sunlight pulsing through trees and the steady rhythm of gossip.

“She had to be 6 ft 7 I’ll bet.”

“She had peacock feather tattoos and everybody used to make weird bird screams when she entered a bar.”

“She went to prison for those DWI’s right?”

“Yeah her cellmate was a murderer – it was kinda intense ‘cause he kinda fell in love with her””

“I wish  we’d shaved before we left the city.”

“It’s ok – if they give us trouble we just get them high enough not to notice and offer to let them rape us.”

“That’d work- we’re thinner than any of the girlfriends I’ve seen yet – and we have all our teeth.”

“We’ve also got Sarah behind us if we get into trouble – In her guy days she was a special unit Marine.  She’s got mad sniper skills.”

The day shimmers – shaking leaves; slow burning cigarettes and splifs; hot dust: the cold river, blue chilled hands pulling and grabbing under the water: an armoured crawdad struggling to escape soft fingers –it’s red, shellacked shell tapped by a hard, perfectly manicured fingernail.