by Dawn Schout
Exploding fireworks look
like dahlias that want to enclose
her. He is next to her.
She is so used to being alone
that sometimes she forgets
he is here. They lean together,
their bodies rosebud petals.
into smoke before wind sweeps
them away. Their remnants, burned
shards of paper, sprinkle onto her legs.
She never forgets
now that he is not here, still feels
the burning shards he left.
She looks happy in their picture,
her lips upturned like a dying leaf.
Dawn Schout’s poetry has appeared in more than 30 publications, including Gloom Cupboard, Main Street Rag, Poetry Quarterly, Red River Review, and Tipton Poetry Journal. She is an assistant editor for Fogged Clarity and lives near Lake Michigan.