The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Marc Alan Di Martino

The Skaters
“and years—so many years”
                —Virgil, Aeneid

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!

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