Red and orange glints off of the
buffered stainless steel bellies
of cruel butterflies,
and in curious curvatures
the collapsing wooden
homes are reflected on
bubble glass.
The flicker and leap
of crackling paper
browning and blackening
where once was a room
partition and a sleeping
mat.
The horrible bee buzz
rumble overhead
is the only thing audible
over the screams
of mothers
and little children,
their singed hair and angry
blisters visible even in the
smoke darkened skies.
The sizzle of incendiary bombs
are meaningless
after Hiroshima,
after Nagasaki’s
nuclear furnace.
“Killing Japanese didn’t bother me very much at that time… I suppose if I had lost the war, I would have been tried as a war criminal…”
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