The occasion appropriated my wardrobe
to travel back through the city for the cake
Where the oxen forded not the river but the highway
And the rickshaw interior was fated for the day.
At the bakery they wondered if every American dressed for their pastry.
but we soon assimilated them to our spirit
It must be the only one in the city of its kind.
We didn’t have a mit or a pigskin, so we played cards instead. Get those redcoats out of here! Kelly proclaimed.
6 lungs inflated 70 balloons; a mosquito held them; a tailor’s string shared with all.
We requested a special dinner themed America.
3/4 of it required salt so we knew they had succeeded.
When I said Americans weren’t louder than us I was lying, Norwegian Ann admitted over her green beans when we sang the anthem. It’s manifest destiny, I replied. We had so much more space than you to fill.
But as soon as we shouted at everyone for fireworks, rain threatened to deflate us
but we paused with the clouds to scare the neighborhood.
That’s not supposed to look like that! she said in this moment. Neither was the messy white ground flame that followed, but it glowed better and brighter.
Is it a war? the ghostly congregation at the boy’s hostel wanted to know.
Still the rain pixeled the air in white dots all around us, the callous sky collapsing in downward arrows as we fixed to send the biggest sparks higher.
In the end, two managed an opposing current.
When they burst low and fast, we danced and danced and danced in the sand turned mud.
It wasn’t the explosion we loved, but the lighting of it. We saluted the floating ashes and shouted freedom! as the monsoon fell into our open, wild mouths.