| I was going to write about a crescent of honeydew melon. An artist told me she paints grids when she isn’t certain how to begin. A grid of steel stores nuclear fuel below the surface of pools in temporary rooms with red railings. I glanced at one image, then checked my email, my nightshade tank top wet against the dip in my spine you might like to touch and say, Stop. Have a glass of water. There once was a structure three-stories tall built on an island Japan surrendered. This building was a bomb. At its center, liquid hydrogen filled a thermos. We nicknamed it after an angel appearing in the Bible, the Torah, and the Qur’an. Or maybe the name could have come from a football player of the Fifties we might remember on Trivia Night. I think how hammers strike the thinnest wires inside a piano. Hard. Once, we evacuated the coral shore my grandfather flew over in a B-17—the typed label of his photo half torn. The Department of the Interior Master Plan shows where the people will live. I swallow vomit after watching the island wart into an orange bulb. Just before, birds glanced off the shimmering water. Copyright © 2014 by Tyler Mills. Used with permission of the author. |
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