Feu d’Artifice

Means fire of artifice. French for fireworks,
that art of small bombs to entertain, to delight like
words appearing across some screen not sky.
Blazing images in bright words—bombs from
beyond any single mind, their bursts almost
silent but still calling, calling—

bursts bright black, bright blue, bright red
words in eye-skies, on white screens calling, calling.
Stealthily. Insistent. Sweetly. Come. Come
bright children, come. Come see, come play,
come rest, come stay, stay—
Stay bright children of Forgetting.

Siren song saying: keep on. After the fragrant
way of old, of fields and forests, lush of soils so
intelligent, after the caress of seasons, their rhythms
on the skin, after all creatures not you, even after
all your own creatures no longer of use, of value—
come bright children, come. Forget this too:

the essence of your selves—your very own, original,
rare, nature. Come listen, keep listening to this artifice,
this song, see this show before you sleep, then sleep
bright children, sleep. No need to keep
awake, to make. Drift off and dream, dream bright
dreams of apples imploding in deep darkness

Hush now bright ones, hush. Just rest and smell
the delicate pieces of your own light as you drift off,
drop down, float, become ash and blow, bright ones, blow
away. Don’t worry, don’t wake—nothing burns. It’s only a fire
of artifice, a cunning, a contrivance. Artifice: artificial’s
sister. And these—these are only
Words.

–

Barbara Geary Truan is a member of the Geneva Writers’ Group and has an MFA from Seattle Pacific University.