by Alan Feldman

    The year I was born the atomic bomb went off.

    Here I'd just begun， and someone

    found the switch to turn off the world.

    In the furnace-light， in the central solar fire

    of that heat lamp， the future got very finite，

    and it was possible to imagine time-travelers

    failing to arrive， because there was no time

    to arrive in. Inside the clock in the hall

    heavy brass¹ cylinders² descended³.

    Tick-tock， the chimes changed their tune⁴

    one phrase at a time. The bomb became

    a film star， its glamorous⁵ globe of smoke

    searing the faces of men in beach chairs.

    Someone threw up every day at school.

    No time to worry about collective death，

    when life itself was permeated⁶ by ordeals⁷.

    And so we grew up accepting things.

    In bio we learned there were particles

    cruising through us like whales through archipelagoes，

    and in civics that if Hitler had gotten the bomb

    he'd have used it on the inferior races，

    and all this time love was etching its scars

    on our skins like maps. The heavens

    remained pure， except for little white slits⁸

    on the perfect blue skin that planes cut

    in the icy upper air， like needles sewing.

    From one， a tiny seed might fall

    that would make a sun on earth.

    And so the century passed， with me still in it，

    books waiting on the shelves to become cinders⁹，

    what we felt locked up inside， waiting to be read，

    down the long corridor of time. I was born

    the year the bomb exploded. Twice

    whole cities were charred¹⁰ like cities in the Bible，

    but we didn't look back. We went on thinking

    we could go on， our shapes the same，

    darkened now against a background lit by fire.

    Forgive me for doubting you're there，

    Citizens， on your holodecks with earth wallpaper-

    a shadow-toned ancestor with poorly pressed pants，

    protected like a child from knowing the future.

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