The dragonflies of summer have all vanished.
Now people warm their hands above strange fires
blazing from big green oil drums. There are holes
in the sides. I wonder what made them there.
Neighbors, mostly. Girls lacing up their skates
in packs. The smoke and spark of firesticks
jutting out over the lip, burning, burning.
My parents are somewhere, walking on water
together. My sister is here, her hand in mine
steadying me. Off to the right is where
the man with the Firebird lives, the one
who followed me home. In those apartment buildings,
there. Don’t go there by yourself. Repeat. Don’t
go there . . . my father hoists me and we’re off!
Marc Alan Di Martino is from the United States. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rattle, The New Yorker, Gravel, The Flatbush Review, Verse Virtual, Free Inquiry, and many other places. He currently lives in Italy.
