The Fourth of July


It took so long to get dark that night,
hazy gleams of silver lingering late in the air,
the sky dirtied with thunderclouds
and the gunpowder of backyard firecrackers.
We spent the whole evening
on the screened-in porch, drinking beer. 

When everyone left for the fireworks,
I realized I was tired and drunk.
We found our way upstairs,
giggling and kissing,
to some small guest room.
I remember your hand, firm on my back.

And later I woke, almost jumped:
the booming of fireworks, but I thought
it was the rolling of thunder, or my own heartbeat.
Suddenly so disoriented, I felt upside-down,
that slow stumbling of a childhood nightmare,
the bed and almost-darkness strangely unfamiliar.

"What is it?" I remember calling out,
answered by your body's stirring weight. 
The night was such an oddly loud holiday,
unnerving, with us so quiet in there.
You rolled in my arms and pressed
your hand into my palm, and then

I was surprised by the sudden
gentle pressure of your thumb,
then index finger, then middle finger,
ring, then pinky, then again, almost a twitch,
as if you were counting, or reaching out to me,
finger by finger from your sleep.

It reminded me of the way I'd learned
to count seconds between lightning
and thunder, judging the distance of a storm,
such a tender dependency, light upon sound,
or just this silent communication,   
touch and response in the dark,

how we must be shaken like that, from the inside out.      


Nina Riggs