Daniel Cowper

After the beasts are dragged away, the ploys

of masked actors forgot, and captives’ tears

have drained into the sand, three troops of noble boys

on horseback wage their labyrinthine wars.

         The Feasts of Ovid, Book XI, October 31

Cottonwool webs quake on shrubs. Tinny

speakers cackle. Terror sunk in greed, tiny

witches crunch up gravel walks, recite Trick

or Treat, Trick or Treat, paw through a plastic

pumpkin to pick out favourite sweets. Flashlights

waver in parents’ hands as evening dims to night;

lamps shaped like stars begin to glow on wands

of wizards, like blooms on the wands of blondes

with butterfly wings and glitter, to show

the flock of frightened ghosts and heroes

the paths through trees to the gravel causeway

between salmon-run lagoon and ship-sparred bay.

A bead of fire whistles above the boats:

a crossette of crackling red sparks explodes,

then burning palm-trees fizz — peony petals drip

with a hiss between the masts of anchored ships,

while thunderclaps start toddlers crying in the dark,

put nervous dogs in fits. A pause, while dogs bark

for miles. Men move among the mortars. A lull.

Is that all? some ask. No, no, just wait. Stars pulse

in the black gaps as if alive. In the hush,

a dot spins up, bursts into a flaming bush

of green — blooms of blue kamuro, argent

chrysanthemums. The fiery scent of spent

gunpowder — the oohs — the cheers — shaped humps

of fumes. A staccato of pops and thumps:

globes of gold and blue stack higher and higher.

Fire and ash strive like apprehension and desire

to build a bouquet that scintillates, tumbles

as it climbs.

                      The last sparks cinder; spells crumble

into darkness. Crowds hoot with gratitude;

laughing parents trudge home through the wood,

worn-out heroes and witches in their arms.

                                                                              Boys

splash spirits into jack-o-lanterns; infernos

dance hungrily up from eyes and nose

to scorch white lintels and cedar eaves. Depots

of Roman Candles wait for teens to use as ammo

for midnight wars.

                                  Puff puff, their fireworks go —

blobs of burning metals ricochet off tree boles

and garbage can lids wielded as bucklers — bore holes

through clothes, scorch nasty-smelling sores

like egg-yolks in living skin. Teens scream

in outrage at their capability for pain; dirt-bikes roar

through tan salmonberry tares, careen

between blazing stars that hop from rock to brink,

drop hissing in dark streams.

                                                      Later, they’ll laugh and drink.

Later, they’ll compare

                                         wounds and scars, share

futons and die for one another joyfully in their dreams.