Enola Gay Tibbits

Imagine being Enola Gay

waiting there that appointed day

when the silver wings your

young son brings

drop down upon the scene

with a button press, a short caress

the bright, resultant light

cascading atoms fusing

(and the rising sun set losing).

 

Now carbon shadows bridge the gaps

where school kids once ran laps

tourching wood and ancestor effigies

in flames of unholy chemistries.

Imagine being Enola Gay

waiting there that appointed day

to hear nothing but “it is finished”

before their souls can be relinquished.

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