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 Ben Weakley lives in Tennessee with his wife and children. He writes poetry and enjoys hiking in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
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November 2023
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