Hiroshima A-Bomb Dome
The way the vault arches,
the way the dome's silent ribs beg
the muted sky for a mercy
that time will not deliver –
it reminds me of bleached bones in the desert.
The way the windows' vacant stare
passes through skeletal trees like wind,
reminds me of sunken eyes
staring at the sun.
Something in the way these walls endure,
how the weathered brick fades,
reminds me of the flash
that turned people into shadows.
My grandfather spent 1945 on Guam.
He always said the Nagasaki bomb
was his favourite birthday present.
But the end of the world began here,
above these walls, when creation split in two,
and the stars broke into pieces
that our hands can never mend.
Ben Weakley lives in Tennessee with his wife and children. He writes poetry and enjoys hiking in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
The Ekphrastic Review
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