A Firework Maker on the Domestic Front
I try quietness, am a squiib
at home; sea views. Arguments between
the wife and me peter out. She fumes.
The kids stand back and watch us
like an event. Volatile. She says
St. Catherine's martyrdom was nothing
to hers, and wheels around me as if
I'm hub of her favourite firework.
It's not just the saltpetre
on my clothes that follows me home.
I hold back, damp, in the know.
Protect my wick, if necessary.
Blast you, she says. If only.
Then at dusk, gunpowder light,
I'm gone to ignite the sky with salvos
for some celebration. Remotely.
A clifftop or field as if I'm sixteen
with guilt as large as other blokes"
shadows. I take charge of all
I know: the taper, flame. Sit tight.
The seconds tick. Till I shout, go!
Now rockets are shrieking
toward the stars or, if not, I explode.
(from THE ISLANDERS, Shoestring Press, Notttinghan, UK 2002)
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