Sunday, 17 November 2013

Japan Washes Ashore in Oregon by Catherine McGuire

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
neighbor's cancer,
the slowly dying trees, those shriveled,
Cerebrus-headed sunflowers.
Don't think about hungry ghosts
devouring flesh and leaf
in the night.


leslieleisel said...

This is sobering, sad - and scary. Thank you for writing this though.

Angel Zapata said...

I agree. Scary. But your writing is beautiful.

Jinksy said...

The truth leaks slowly...

Much food for thought in your words. Thank you.