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it’s the fourth
my nephew thinks
the fireworks are gunshots
holds himself close against
his mother’s leg
while she takes a drag
from my cigarette

he’s not old enough
to hear the difference

I tell him that fireworks
sometimes don’t shoot up
in the sky to be born again
sometimes they fizzle on the ground
and explode
with the sound of a pistol

this he understands

we’re at a park
and I put him
on my shoulders
his sandals
beat softly and slowly
against my chest
as he watches the sky

I kiss his knee
still covered in baby fat
and tell him
watch the sky

he falls asleep
on my neck before
the fireworks start

I don’t know where
his mother is