For the Anniversary of the Nuclear Age

At 7:53:19 AM, the clamps release.
Pilot Y feels it in every vertebra –
the gleaming metal chassis falling, twirling;
a child’s toy dangling over a crib.

At 7:53:26, Mother N pushes for the last time.
Son X, a mess of flesh and raw humanity,
has time to breathe in the cold city air only once.
Tears from Mother N fall on his face like
a makeshift baptism.

At 7:53:28, Son X cries for an instant.
In protest? In fear? In awe?
Why not compete to outshine the sun
with brilliant atomic flare?
What could match such an immense contribution
to the altar of human progress?

At 7:53:29, Progress barrels through the roof,
the happy home reduced to fragments.
Mother N watches her heart melt with her child in the glow.

Son X dreams of what Pilot Y
teaches his own boy.
“Careful not to confuse murder and heroism, son.
One of them wears a uniform.”