by Brigit Truex

You swallowed the sun.

The world convulsed, atoned

too late. Petals rained.

Transformed, these return:

concrete, cars, songs, bones, death

rain on us. Black rain.

Negative image.

How do you bury shadows,

the last remains?

Who marks this passage,

makes ink from rain to write these

indelible words?

Notes on the poems:

“August 6, 1945” – On the anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima, some decades later masses of

memorial flowers were dropped from airplanes over the city.

“What Remains” – In one of the few structures left intact after the bombing, a victim’s shadow remained actually seared onto a wall. It was cast there as a negative image from the intense radiation.

“From the Cloud” and “Calligraphy of Death” – Following the bomb’s explosion, incinerated matter was atomized. Due to the staggering atmospheric changes, the residue was sucked up into the sky, and returned to the destroyed city and surrounding countryside in the form of inky black rain.

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Filed under Issue 5: The Far East, Poetry

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