Two weary goddesses on the hot concrete. We blast the crackly radio full volume.
I dance barefoot; my limbs are still unsure of themselves.
The summer asphalt sears my fleshy, uncallused feet. Rose bobs her head casually, coolly. The coolest.
I am seven and my sister reads comic books but as far as I am concerned my sister is the sole superhero
in this town. My hands are smudged blue with melting popsicle. A piece of pink
cotton candy is lodged between Rose’s two front teeth. I don’t think she knows herself better than anyone
else knows her. Thinking too hard, she says, is a recipe for disaster. She has a hole in her shorts.
One of the buttons on my yellow sundress has popped. At this age I am unsure of most things. Today,
I think, is like Sunday but instead America is God. I tell Rose this and she laughs like I said something
funny but I really do mean it. Patriotism and praying seem very similar to me. They both involve
reverence. Rose has begun to question God and America, but I am still young and Church is fun enough
and on Independence Day you get to see fireworks, and the simplicity of abiding by these rituals is
coherent in my seven year old mind. Other things I am already sure of: my sister is a fireball
that is hurtling towards the sun and I cannot wait to see how spectacular the explosion is.
Eliza Spinna is a Manhattan-based emerging poet and writer. She is a rising senior at Stuyvesant High School.