A Certain Metal Manna


The atom bomb,
Oppenheimer's metal infant of regret,
through a drainpipe in the sky
whistled out a gleeful tune as prelude to
their traveling opera, "Saint Vaporo";
brought clever tidings of a most strange love:
"Unto you is born this day August 6 at 8:15 a.m.,
of one Enola Gay, great with child,
the mythic Little Boy.";
and for fifty-seven seconds
ten armed surgeons of the air held their breath,
watched delivery of that spanked, wailing babe,
the triumphant entry of this newborn king.
Out of town, in the mountains,
celebrating my fourth birthday,
we waited a few weeks
until my mother brought me home
to the greydust, flattened, charred-street desert,
the melted bones of Hiroshima.
I thought it such an awfully grand production,
that day when some strangers came to town
and burned my new tricycle.

Copyright (c) 2009 Gary Brown