July 4

•

1976

Black chaps and heavy hats did us in.
98 degrees, and plastic straps chafed

pimply chins, holding all that absurd
pageantry in place. After the drumming

we stood shifting while guns shattered—
a random scream: remember Vietnam!

To drive the death from our ears, we ate
corn-on-the-cob, potato salad, ice-cream

cranked from buckets with salt-padded
sides. Men drained tall cans. Factories

stopped grinding. We flung ourselves
head-first down Slip 'N Slides.

1986

Crashing in Brooklyn. Garfield Street,
pre-gentrification. Sweaty bodegas,

random gunshots. A & S Pork, Rocky's
Pizza. I slipped out for a slice and a bottle

rocket skimmed my toes. I hauled laundry
to the corner and a roman candle singed

my shoulder. And finally it struck me—
what these fireworks mummered.

1996

On President Street we steamed up
the rooftop while bootleg Italian shows

threw down below—rattling our lungs
loose in our chests, filling our nostrils—

all smoke and thick, whistling screams.
Our tongues traded casualties: ash, grit,

Schlitz, Snapple. My legs straddled you,
the water tower, the whole East River.

2007

I don't want to see one more bloody
missile. I am sick from seeing. I turn off

the television, open "Cooking Down East."
Nana's marginalia dresses Classic American

Potato Salad: Grate, don't mince, the onions
and add vinegar first, then other seasonings.

Rich lore lost, for the dearth of young
to reap it—and not sweet Victory onion

brimming my eyes.