How To Make a Boy Out of Fireworks

by Forrest Rapier

Voodoo Rain sparks and spirals as you light
Fuses on the Neighbor Haters. You watch Banshee
Shrieks burn as bottle rockets scream at cars

Passing by our neighborhood at the wrong time.
It’s chaos here: Fourth of July and everybody
Drunk on a bicycle, trying to evade Super

Soaker blasts and hose nozzle spurts
Being shot from balconies on First Street.
Red skin, white shutters, drowned bluegrass

Suffocates beneath slip-n-slide hooplah
As inflatable elephants splash dribble
On chests; isn’t it ridiculous

What we do to show we want the day
Off? Stretch balloons over the spigot
Lip and let side-of-the-house-water gush

Inside neon pink plastic splash bombs.
After everyone’s soaked and plastered,
Real havoc is split and splintered

Like a tree made of light
Exploding for a moment.
Let him crash, and crash, and crash

Against the darkness of the night.


FORREST RAPIER has appeared in dozens of literary journals across the country, including Asheville Poetry Review and Best New Poets. His debut collection, As the Den Burns, was published by Texas Review Press in 2022. Currently, he is pursuing his P.h.D. at Florida State University. He lives and writes in Tallahassee.