I was going to write about a crescent
of honeydew melon. An artist told me
she paints grids when she isn’t
certain how to begin. A grid of steel
stores nuclear fuel below the surface
of pools in temporary rooms
with red railings. I glanced at one image,
then checked my email, my nightshade
tank top wet against the dip in my spine
you might like to touch
and say, Stop. Have a glass of water.
There once was a structure three-stories tall
built on an island Japan surrendered.
This building was a bomb.
At its center, liquid hydrogen filled a thermos.
We nicknamed it after an angel
appearing in the Bible, the Torah, and the Qur’an.
Or maybe the name could have come
from a football player of the Fifties
we might remember on Trivia Night.
I think how hammers strike the thinnest
wires inside a piano. Hard.
Once, we evacuated the coral shore
my grandfather flew over
in a B-17—the typed label of his photo
half torn. The Department of the Interior
Master Plan shows where the people will live.
I swallow vomit after watching
the island wart into an orange bulb. Just before,
birds glanced off the shimmering water.