The bomb
A person is only organs, electricity and water,
carried in a bag of skin,
stuffed with preferences and love, stories and regrets:
a life compressed.
Yet, sometimes you think you’re nothing important,
one speck of humanity in the brutal desert of history.
Who’d even notice …?
Know there will be an explosion when you die,
your very youness will mushroom,
dispersing, floating, settling,
as aftershocks spread.
You’ll flatten the nearest –
punched in the heart.
Your waves will reach and reach,
until those who never knew your name,
will rock back on their heels
and wipe tears they can’t explain.
