Fireworks are blasting in the sky, booming
loud over the lake, the field, and I’m wondering
if that is what, at a microscopic scale, what is happening
in my womb when you cum inside me.
Maybe not with the volume, well, maybe your shouts,
and maybe not with the spray of colors, or the sheer
range of type, but sometimes I feel that alive, tingled,
awakened, and enraptured by the spawning lights
like I’m staring into your cringing eyes when you eek
out your cum inside me.
I think I hug you, after, like a dad hugs his daughter on the
blanket in the grass while the loud bangs burst her drums.
I think I’m snuggling you in like the daughter hides her face
in her dad’s belly frightened from the shattering force,
the incessant blasts, that are nothing like, yet strangely similar
to the blasts she’ll someday get.
Fireworks and grills, burning and beer, and later,
we’ll fuck, celebrating a day off, or independence.