There is no poem here, just my uncle
in the first hours of August 6th, 1945
watching in darkness the Enola Gay gain speed
on runway Able, North Field, Tinian Island.
Mid-morning the sky – a blue and turquoise axe handle –
swings down a flaming red blade
on Hiroshima. He said they saw the light
1,500 miles away, a second dawn.
No poem. Talked with the ground crews,
went to mess, played poker
with his tail gunner
and the navigator.
Will meaning come later, if ever?
If he drew to a flush of hearts, he does not remember.
Or if Tokyo Rose played Blue Skies
on the radio.
The Sunday Muse