Fireworks

Beth Boylan

The fireworks go off in Asbury,

perfectly timed to another hot flash, another pill,

startling me as though I were right there on the boardwalk,

though I have not yet returned—like everything else we shared

still too hot to touch.

I can’t tell what’s worse, losing my insides or us. Your hands

keep appearing in my dreams of wrong trains and crying babies,

silver-ringed half-moons orbiting mine.

This mattress sags from grief

as I trace the surgeon’s handiwork

and wonder how long before the raw red lines

fade to scars,

if parts left behind

shift into the void,

why we can still see the fireworks

after they explode.