fireworks, beestung

BY KATIE MOORE

FIREWORKS
Fireworks
waste my time
with noise,
a bunch of flash,
beer-reeking
patriotism
in truck beds,
blanket-littered
fields, camp chairs.
Fireworks
make children
cry, pee their
pants, channel
demons. They
will never be
as cool as you
thought they were
when you were nine,
and afterward
the traffic sucks.

BEESTUNG
Beestung,
crying
in front of perfectly strange strangers,
shameful,
red cheeked.
I can't look at any of them now.
They didn't say anything,
not one of them asked
if I was OK,
which I wasn't,
or if they could
do anything,
which they couldn't,
which isn't the point.
I would do it,
be kind,
for them.
I forgot how much it hurts,
the bee sting,
and the being outsider-in-the-middle,
a target,
for laughing, pointing, poking at,
for patting on the head, for pity,
for drawing comparisons,
and feeling superior.
You know what,
snobby rich PTA ladies,
with smirks and upturned noses,
with pearls and Prada bags?
That bee didn't sting me
because I'm a peasant.
I just sat on it.

Katie Moore is a writer, mother, and wife. In that order. (Sorry, husband.) She has divorce-worthy affairs with words and doesn't feel bad about it. Most of her time is spent editing The Legendary, a place for weirdos to put their words. She can be reached at: katie@downdirtyword.com.