Fourth of July - Sandra Anfang

[Larry Robinson]

Fourth of July
 
The tension began a few days early.
We’d stand on chairs, 
pull down the big quart jars
hands barely meeting around thick waists.
 
Grandma would punch holes in the lids;
and we’d sit stoically in the yard
waiting for lightning bugs to roost
a premonition of the fireworks to come.
 
I couldn’t bear to keep them 
on my dresser overnight;
couldn’t square my momentary pleasure 
with the finality of their death. 
 
Finally, the day would dawn.
Already hot, we’d crank the droning attic fan
and down our oatmeal, 
hearts already in the park.
 
We’d lay out blankets early on the hill
stow tin-foiled bowls of slaw in shady roosts
while neighbors paved the lawn 
like frontline troops.
 
Then Dad would set the funny olive cap upon his head
and stride off with the other men 
marching to a place called war
I didn’t understand.
 
This dark detour from mundane life
from softball games and Sunday school
from right and wrong, from black and white
cast deep furrows in my mind.
 
I recall the swell of patriotic hearts,
my mother’s high vibrato,
the rough weave of the flags we clutched, 
the myths we were suckled on.

	- Sandra Anfang
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