Homemade Fireworks

My father died five years ago on September 17, 2003. The funeral was held on September 20, and it was one of the worst days of my life due to our choice of eulogizer. I wrote this poem about that experience, and my father's passing.


Among the spiderwebs
and exoskeletal remains
of endless insect victims,
Dad kept gunpowder
in the back of the garage,
and jars of copper shavings,
iron, other metals
for color.
I watched him many times
pour the volatile concoction
into a cardboard cone,
the tip plugged with a wick of rope,
seal the bottom with masking tape and cardboard,
and kiss it for good luck.

I wonder why we never exploded.

The sparks flew
illegal and exciting
on black summer nights
of chirping crickets
and an elite circle of
invited neighborhood guests:
Aunt Ella,
the Fishers
from down the street,
Mom's friend Ethel
and her husband Dave,
a towering man
with a towering nose.
He called himself a friend, too.

At Dad's deathbed,
Dave preached forgiveness,
confession,
accepting Christ as savior,
which Dad had done decades before.
He didn't say,
"Remember that time you guys came over
and we all ate stone crabs and pasta?
Wasn't that a blast?"

At the funeral,
Dave prattled on for an hour,
stomped around that parlor floor
ranting about gays gone wild,
abortions for none,
war is great, war is good.
Nothing about spaghetti dinner
or homemade fireworks.

ewr