Morning

he didn’t dream of Hiroshima
of dead babies or leukemia or
of carbon bodies that marked the spot
where the quiet rumble tore
through stone and skin.


he didn’t dream of black rain
or outstretched tongues
........grateful, guileless, parched
he didn’t inhale the bouquet
of mushrooms in the morning.


from above the Little Boy
in the clear blue sky at dawn
the silver-plated beauty
shimmering incandescent in the sun:
this is what he dreamt of




for
forty-three
seconds

 

from MayDay Poetry Project 2009,

reproduced in memory of the many

who lost their lives or limbs

65 years ago this month

in Hiroshima.