the day the bombs fell
my house was disintegrated
every plank of pseudo wood
every glimmer of glass
every picture frame that held us in place
everything; except for the fake flowers on the dining table

amidst the shadowed quiet world they stood
even though they don't need sunlight
they beckon the sun to come closer
but no matter how close it comes
the flowers will feel no warmth

they wont ever feel the wonder of photosynthesis coursing through their stems
and into their still golden petals
its not as if they felt anything ever
im not particularly sure about real flowers' feelings either

dont ask me how they made it through the impact because i dont have an answer
maybe the pakistani laborers decided to put in a little more effort for their pennies one day
because the single impurity was a petal with ghostly spots on it
something you would see on an old love letter your grandma wrote

and that petal was the first to fall
no one was there to see it fall
and the world was so topsy turvy that it could've fallen upwards towards the ashy clouds
or it could have defined its own set of physics
a philosophical query in its own right
it could have also just floated there
in the absence of anything
alone

sometimes it's a wonderful thought, being alone
i envy that petal
it could get away from the rest quickly, painfully, easily
maybe it was quick, painless, and easy because there was nothing left in the world to make it hard
i mean its not like there are any biomolecular bonds to keep the petal from falling
there aren't any living organisms feeding on its non existent nectar
and it didn't need any of those things in the first place
they're fake
simple and fake

i don't know why we kept them around
i guess it made everything feel better amidst the chaos of our home
mama yelling at my sister when she doesn't do her homework
daddy yelling at mama when she yells at my sister
and me sitting in my room
also alone but also very much surrounded by the things that i desperately want to get away from

that's why i envy the plastic flower
even in a world where the sun doesn't shine
where the birds don't sing
where the rain doesn't fall
it doesn't need any of the things i need
unfortunately i need oxygen and sunlight and love

it got love just for looking pretty
impossible for someone like me
maybe i am pretty to someone else
but it certainly never got me anywhere
never paid for my dinners
never got me a kiss in the rain
never got me flowers from passersby

but these flowers could just sit there on the table
not even living
and soak up all the love that is now lost to the ashes

its petals fell slowly over centuries
the table, half disintegrated, rotted from beneath the nonsensical flower ***
the remnants of the walls collapsed in on themselves
narrowly missing the flowers
resistant bugs ran to the flower for mercy
but died in its shadow realizing that their cries for sweet nectar were futile and their journey to Mecca was a hoax

over time my home became much like modern day Chernobyl
full of life and light and fresh air
pockets of radioactivity kept the living beings in check
and the fake petals of the fake flowers scattered across this newfound land
the last remnants of human life on Earth
it's almost silly to think about

we got up that day and didn't expect anything new to happen
the same old grind, same old food, same old people, same old rhymes
but the day ended with a skin breaking flash
and the sound of everything dying reached us before our deaths

it was rather slow actually.

the scientists called it The Bomb,
capitalizing it like God.
is there anything more
surreal or divine than to
crush the world under your fist?
is there anything more human
than to ascend, abuse, destroy?
do you think they realized
what they'd done?

animal breaks Creation,
adam usurps Creator,
radioactive, reeling, resplendent -
i hope for a nuclear future;
not desolation, no horsemen,
but clean air, man-made Providence.
there's something beautiful about
evolving, becoming more than animal,
living past hope or good sense.
i am become god,
bringer of life;
i want to live to see the atom split,
not for death,
but for light.

What do my memories taste like? There lies on my tongue—
An atomic bomb:
a purported speck, with no chicken pox skin situated upon such.
I spat it out; I wobbled on and on, stomping the microscopic intensity into the sludge.
No one sees; how pleasant…

My shoe’s underside slit it— a paper cut broiled to the infinitude degree—
Preposterous conundrum! Slam!
I fulminate! I screech, the needy baby I am!
My guttural heave strews in the wind:
deformed limbs on the newer generations, an abysmal thread.

Supposedly bland, but then: a guzzling bleed from you and I gushes on and on; but oh, was it needed!
Listen to my writhing! Soak in my curdling roaring!

I am the mafia mastermind, but I plead to guilt!
The vandalism cannot be grated, but I will
revamp, spot clean, and hunt for a vaccine.
I cannot cure a scored scar, but rest assured:
I will endeavor to solidify the clot.

Maybe the darkest things are the truest things,
Death, the redoubtable lover of all, the atom bomb
Burns beneath cherry blossoms of closed eyelids,
A magnolia grove of forever fasting lips of the dead,
Pompeii and Hiroshima, twin lovers of rupture,
Graves of the wind now, keepers of nothing and all.