August 4/365 Three Mile Island, the Saturday After

 

Don’t go. The air will be soft with poison still.
You don’t know where the water is coming from.
The dust that lines window sills may glow
With unspent energies. Ashes before death.
Don’t go.
                But we drive his big white Galaxy
Through the middle of Pennsylvania, finding
And losing the Susquehanna over and over.
His charm pulling my molecules apart. My arm
Out the window, fingers splayed to taste the air.
Don’t worry. 
                      We will never get close enough
To be damaged. In the shadow of silos, sheep
Grazing on tender fields, wet earth turned fresh
To the Sun, the steam rising. I feel the sweet
Mutations of spring all around me. I almost dare
To take his sharp face in my hands.
                                                          Don’t worry.
We will never get close enough to be damaged.
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