Ricochet

The clearest view of the fireworks: here on the hill
of the home for the criminally insane. Small fires

crackle, sparkler-set in the recently scythed grass. We spread
our blanket under the red river valley sky

and wait. Behind us, the barely audible mantra 
of patients whose souls were slowly swallowed whole

by the barely-lit manse, now rafter-thin, rife with bats and not
much used for more than the ricochet of six-shot

Latin Beats & Bling-Blings easing
into a Silver Chrysanthemum that rattles the already

broken glass behind the window bars. Through the thick
July night, two windows dimly    flicker and look. Locks

click, footsteps, heavy doors     I hear, although
my distance from the building makes this impossible

according to my husband. Strange thoughts creep 
through the field, darkly, while my eyes pan the sky for fourteen

carat Glitter Kings. A summer solstice 
night in 1910 when cats were thrown on the bonfire 

could have been the beginning     of one patient's end here. 
The smoke-filled sky could mean a heaven still angry 

from the time Solomon found his gatekeeper opening and closing 
the veils of one of his wives. After the Rain

of Fire finale, we leave, walking along the razor
wire fence, nodding to the guard at the gate.