Miss Atomic Bomb
Twelve men died on the thirteenth,
fifteen on the fourteenth. I suppose
that makes fifty four, all things
considered.
Red bricks and razor wire, my love.
And grey dust that settles on our skin.
February frost. Ice builds up on the
inside.
We ate pickled peaches from jars
that night. Climbed onto the roof
and watched the sky, as every star
exploded.
By then it was already too late.
Tectonic shrugs wrong-footed me
and the seas boiled. I guess your
parents were right this time, all things
considered.
Choruses of TV bulletins played
fast and loose with the truth that
day. But me? I am no God. No
hero.
Agar plates smeared with sulphur and
rain water yielded no cure. At least I
tried. But there was nothing to be
done.
It was already too late.
Oblivious, really, to the weight of
collapsing universes, I held my
breath. You held your tongue. We
waited.
Crouched beneath an upturned table,
I watched you pack your cases. You
took the confidence I gave you. Left the
ring.
Christopher, you sang above the
siren’s rise and fall. I’m doing this
for both of us. One day you’ll thank
me.
I still don’t understand.
Leanne Moden is the Fenland Poet Laureate 2013. She is part of the 28 Sonnets Later poetry collective, and is currently writing her first full length live literature show. She blogs at www.tenyearstime.blogspot.co.uk . twitter: @crimsonebolg