On the Worship of My People

Mortar Shell, Sterling, Steel, Prose Poem

On our highest of high holy days—descending into cul-de-sacs by twos, by tens—hands locked and packed close, bringing blankets and offerings of corn and watermelons and of beer and kitchen lighters and potato salad and of chips and packs of poppers and of punks and sparklers and our children and our friends and ourselves, wholly and completely—we make pilgrimage to our burning sites. Those most fervent and generous believers among us, with open homes and yards and garages, offer hot dogs and burnt cheeseburgers and as we break bread together from nearly noon to dusk. And as comes evening, when the sun is close to down, our children fill the streets with fire as we the elders wait, watching the sky. And not all at once, but slowly, do we join them. We fill the air with smoke and light and roiling, burning, furious singing, thund’ring, roaring as we scream and cry out in joy that we are here and we are strong.