I’m tall enough now that my head
		reaches the window of the back door.
When I dream I cannot hide from what is looking for me: 
		it has seen my face and no longer needs to be invited in.

I’m turning the knob, sparklers bought at a Pennsylvania rest stop
		tucked into the elastic of my training bra
to show the kids who smoke in our yard
		that I, too, can burn.
My father stops me from the stairs and through the window
		I can see them skittering over the fence.

For days I watch the flowerbed they trampled 
		grow muddy in the rain,
						my skin singing of sulfur.

-Published in Moonsick Magazine, Issue 20.

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