She of four years, nine months,
wide eyes, fragile bones,
wakes screaming, runs through
the dark house. I catch her.
"I can't stop thinking about bombs."
I hold her. Hot flesh. Rabbit pulse.
"I just couldn't stop thinking.
They scare me.
You know where they come from?
They come from Bombland.
I hope they always stay there. I hate
the people who make bombs."
from Son of a Poet
© Copyright 1986 by Joe Cottonwood