Should trigger fireworks in the night sky—
one splash of color for the way she jumped
and squealed in the contraband sprinkler
at that hole we rented down in Bessemer--
to memorialize the way she diaper-danced bass,
seeping in from lowriders parked out front—
There ought to be an expectant blast of light
and magic competing against a full moon.
At least one skyrocket for the soiled arms
and thinning back of the green hand-me-down sofa,
to make real the left behind impressions
of her constant to-and-fro climbs.
This transition merits Black Cat
volume. We should feel la vibraciones
in the cores of our chest cavities—
So that, when we lie down
at night, we won't smart from
the silence this devastatingly,
thinking we missed the shower storm.
All those sparks
before our eyes
have time to adjust.