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…”