Fireworks, Mollyocket Day

We can go down Hudson’s Hill
just a bit, climb the banking,
and see them above Bennett’s Auto.

Just us, an entire moon, the night
breeze blowing through July
pines, keeping off the mosquitoes.

What would the last Pequaket
think of these gunpowder flowers
blooming in her name?

The seconds tick between sight
and sound, like reading ancient Greek –
see the birds, hear the birds.



This poem was originally published in Trees in Our Dooryards, Redbird Chapbooks.



About the Poet:
Sonja Johanson has recent work appearing in the Best American Poetry blog, BOAAT,  Epiphany,  and The Writer’s Almanac.  She is a contributing editor at the Found Poetry Review, and the author of Impossible Dovetail (IDES, Silver Birch Press), all those ragged scars (Choose the Sword Press), and Trees in Our Dooryards (Redbird Chapbooks).  Sonja divides her time between work in Massachusetts and her home in the mountains of western Maine. You can follow her work at .



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