Oppenheimer had his regrets, watching
the universe’s secrets unspool
in a cloud of radioactivity, knowing
the generations of humans who failed
to resist destructive power, whether chipped
from flint, sharpened on a whetstone,
or molded from molten steel. Our metaphors
draw blood, our leaders rattle sabers,
our children make weapons
from broken sticks to wage war
on the playground, and we shrug and avert
our eyes, as if our genes carry the program
for poison, as if we bear no guilt
when the deadly dance begins again,
the music replayed until our needle
wears a groove through the record. Skip
and the same notes echo up and down
as the missiles arc overhead and planes
drone through the sky, and some distant
city goes up in flames, its citizens broken
into their component atoms, shadows
burned into the face of the sun.
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In the past quarter-century, Jennifer Crow‘s work has appeared in many print and electronic venues, including Uncanny, Analog, and anthologies like Along Harrowed Trails and Under Her Skin. A Rhysling Award winner in 2023 for her poem “Harold and the Blood-Red Crayon,” she will have work in upcoming issues of Penumbric and Asimov’s Science Fiction as well as her poem in Kaleidotrope. Those who’d like to know more about her writing can catch up with her on Bluesky: @writerjencrow.bsky.social. |