Yes, you will remember her—
she who rose from the heart
of the fire, walked through the coals,
and sat next to you
on that night of July 4.
She whose image, like the
crack, pop, sizzle
of the colors bursting overhead,
is burned into your memory.

She who weeps desperately to remember,
and dances wildly to forget.
She whose hair still smelled
of smoke and citronella
the next morning when you awoke,
kissed her head, and walked away.
Yes, you will remember her—
you must remember her.

For, like the sulfur-smelling smoke
that hazed the field when the show
was over, she disappeared into
the atmosphere to linger among
the stars, the gods, the lost souls
crying in vain to return to the
world they once knew.
She will cry for you.

And you will hear in every
warm summer’s breeze, every
rustle of fall leaves, every
creak from snow-weighted trees, every
rooftop-shaking rain,
your name—
whispered from lips whose own
identity you never bothered to know.
But even so,

Yes—you will remember her.