Fireflies strung, the lilac evening
beaded on the drinks in our fathers’
raised hands. Our fathers didn’t turn
from the patios; our mothers practiced
eternity. In this game only I could move.
Time stands still because
it has a body—My brothers and
the kids from our cul-de-sac
fell where I flung them, landed as tigers
mid-roar, or movie stars tipping their chins.
Their bare ankles in the grass didn’t itch.
Through open windows the clatter of dishes
quieted, our mothers’ calls stretched
so I could walk between the sounds.