“It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other.”

 

—John Adams

 

 

“Was clene bones & no wode & that is callid a bone fyre.”

 

—John Mirk’s Book of Festivals

 

 

Follow us trailing lit necklaces, crowns,
 
 
cordially, peacefully toward the water
 
 
beelining She called it
 
 
pagan, She said, buy me
 
 
a cone
 
 
Many said    fuck it We won’t
 
 
participate But she said nah,
 
 
nah we’re law-abiding we’re gonna get
 
 
some sprinkles, miniature
 
 
flags photograph licking  the
 
 
top Now  we’re close,
 
 
led by locals
 
 
the boats bracing
 
 
water, wavering lights
 
 
Shoulder to shoulder compressed
 
 
No harsh words Just pass by
 
 
Cloister in toward the pyre
 
 
Get inside the crowd
 
 
She said I hear that freedom song
 
 
We hear bells
 
 
There over 20 ft stacked wooden pallets
 
 
Here it goes here it Firemen gather twos and
 
 
threes lighting up
 
 
First A black stream
 
 
snakes and then
 
 
smoldering   sky
 
 
The embers buzzing        swarming
 
 
The townspeople Our night
 
 
We can say ours
 
 
Eyes affixed faces aflame
 
 
Language bereft
 
 
This is not hell