Unrelentingly,
water pours
for the next 100 years
swollen with radiation.
The fish have not been told.
Nor birds warned.
Clouds lift mist & vapor,
rain it back down
10,000 & more miles away.
The children are swaying
in our arms. They cannot drink
the milk. Mothers help them
put on their masks. Fathers
weep. Whoever remains
will hear the stories
that will grow like cancers.
Whatever remains
will glow in the dark
bone by bone.
© Karen Neuberg
Japan Held Nuclear Data, Leaving Evacuees in Peril
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Karen lives in Brooklyn NY. Her poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies. She has always lived near the ocean.
