July 5th

There were explosions in the air

and blood on your hands.

Our child, afraid for you, barricaded his door.

Our child, afraid of you, said nothing when you knocked.

You must have been certain your heart would never be your own,

certain you would never be free,
labelled a madwoman.

When your husband left that night, with a red patch on his pale white face,

he told you that you didn’t mean it. And you wondered,

what else you could possibly have meant.

The next morning despair washed over you like an ocean.

You could scarcely get out of bed.

You took your pillow and a roll of tape

to the attic

where there were also shells.

You brought our blue child 

a little happiness with his favorite distraction,

and went to the far side of the yard,

just out of the white-hot July sun,

into the cool blue of the shadows.

In the air, even the day after the holiday,

one could still hear the muffled reports of

independence.

You should be here now 

only to know

his heart is not his own,

but it will be.

Sometimes he blames himself.

Reminders are many, 

but never inescapable,

and while a once happy distraction

is now a source of dawning despair,

there are other ways to be happy and free,

and he will know them.

What else 

could you possibly 

have meant?