When they bombed Hiroshima,
all I inherited was fire.
My mother lent me her ashes, my father left me
his burned leather shoe.
I have often heard “love conquers all”
but flames have burned the edges of my white flimsy paper body, curling back the charred edges,
threatening to collapse on the love inside me.
Nothing survives but the black waste that fills my
nostrils, clouds my eyes, and feeds on the anger
that refuses to subside.

When they bombed Hiroshima,
little boys held on to unmoving marble fingers.
Mothers clawed to find bits of their own creations,
all their dreams crumbling into dust.
No man was left as himself, the tar hid their claim
to the roots they had embedded.
Nuclear fumes, hatred, and death seeped like poison
into our intertwined trunks.

When they bombed Hiroshima, my sister held on to
my mother's tooth nestled in the rubble.
The only pearl white reflecting a darkness filled with blood and defeat.
In Times Square, people clutched flags like that
very tooth, surrounded by red, white, and blue
as we swam in a sea of black.
The tooth illuminated my sister's last hope,
feet still unsure and burned, she ran to the tracks,
embracing death as if she were our mother.

When they bombed Hiroshima,
I gave up on light.
I gave up on the hope of the blackness ever lifting
and the burns ever healing.
Some have the courage to die.
Others have the courage to live.
When they bombed Hiroshima,
they left me the courage to do neither.