Wednesday, July 3, 2013

From the amusement park

artwork: ralph murre

From the amusement park
~ by Marjorie Stamm Rosenfeld

each night above the line
where dark has draped its coat
unevenly on trees that huddle close,
the rockets rise.  I hear them
before I see them –
tiny crackles
of resistant thunder.

Once, on the 4th,
in a younger world,
friends from India shared our park,
Mina and her dark-eyed brood –
Bablu, Laltu, baby Dinku –
family gathered in with us
on gentle grass.  Mina said,
“All of your chilled-ren
are sveet, but Ah-mee is soo,
sooo sveet.”  That July the fireworks
fanned out so big and bright
they stretched the sky
and showered us
with crimson points of light
and golden coins.

Now where stars
are faint through holes
they’ve punched in night:
no glimmer of grace.
I am looking for you
everywhere.  I grab the phone
and I imagine you.  I see your face,
the features change.  Flaming globes
of orange and green shoot up,
a trail of blue, a silver sheen
before the previous
has died.
But far off
in an anarchy
of sky.

You are not there,
the child I tried so hard for,
finally had.
You are not there.

~ previously published in Fringing the Garments
   (Pecan Grove Press)