Two years later, debris scuttles onto the shingle:
fishing boats, brass bowl, a temple gate,
scrap wood, a window frame, shop sign –
there's no closure to some wounds.
Buried in black and beige sand drifts:
someone's smashed mirror, holding
fractured clouds, broken sky.
Unseen, uninvited, radiation floats
then burrows. The vast currents
that trawl the sea
leave long, invisible streamers.
The truth leaks more slowly
than cesium, plutonium, tritium.
Data, well buried. Don't connect
the slowly dying trees, those shriveled,
Don't think about hungry ghosts
devouring flesh and leaf
in the night.
Catherine McGuire, OR, USA