It’s the blisters forming,
second, sometimes even third, degree;
like drinking moonshine
or the tom yum gai on swollen tongues.
It’s chap of lips. It’s claws
extending from the
Hiroshima, a second sun
we try to bury in Chernobyl.
I still remember
how the rain felt strange
that morning nineteen eighty six,
and how I thought my
skin would peel, and marrow boil
from those hands extending
through that drizzle on my face.
And you took my hand and said:
“Did you know that Marie Curie’s
still is kept in a leadlined box?”
September 9, 2016