by C. K. Williams

    The first morning of Three Mile Island： those first disquieting¹， uncertain，

    mystifying hours.

    All morning a crew of workmen have been tearing the old decrepit² roof

    off our building，

    and all morning， trying to distract myself， I've been wandering out to

    watch them

    as they hack³ away the leaden layers of asbestos paper and disassemble

    the disintegrating⁴ drains.

    After half a night of listening to the news， wondering how to know a

    hundred miles downwind

    if and when to make a run for it and where， then a coming bolt awake

    at seven

    when the roofers we've been waiting for since winter sent their ladders

    shrieking⁵ up our wall，

    we still know less than nothing： the utility company continues making

    little of the accident，

    the slick federal spokesmen still have their evasions⁶ in some semblance⁷

    of order.

    Surely we suspect now we're being lied to， but in the meantime， there

    are the roofers，

    setting winch-frames， sledging⁸ rounds of tar⁹ apart， and there I am， on

    the curb¹⁰ across， gawking.

    I never realized what brutal¹¹ work it is， how matter-of-factly and harrow-

    ingly dangerous.

    The ladders flex¹² and quiver， things skid¹³ from the edge， the materials are

    bulky and recalcitrant¹⁴.

    When the rusty¹⁵， antique nails are levered out， their heads pull off； the

    underroofing crumbles¹⁶.

    Even the battered¹⁷ little furnace， roaring along as patient as a donkey，

    chokes and clogs¹⁸，

    a dense¹⁹， malignant²⁰ smoke shoots up， and someone has to fiddle²¹ with a

    cock， then hammer it，

    before the gush²² and stench will deintensify， the dark， Dantean broth²³

    wearily subside²⁴.

    In its crucible²⁵， the stuff looks bland²⁶， like licorice， spill it， though， on

    your boots or coveralls，

    it sears， and everything is permeated²⁷ with it， the furnace gunked with

    burst and half-burst bubbles，

    the men themselves so completely slashed²⁸ and mucked they seem almost

    from another realm， like trolls.

    When they take their break， they leave their brooms standing²⁹ at attention

    in the asphalt pails，

    work gloves clinging like Br'er Rabbit to the bitten shafts³⁰， and they slouch

    along the precipitous lip，

    the enormous sky behind them， the heavy noontime air alive with shim-

    mers and mirages³¹.

    Sometime in the afternoon I had to go inside： the advent³² of our vigil was

    upon us.

    However much we didn't want to， however little we would do about it，

    we'd understood：

    we were going to perish of all this， if not now， then soon， if not soon，

    then someday.

    Someday， some final generation， hysterically³³ aswarm beneath an at-

    mosphere as unrelenting as rock，

    would rue³⁴ us all， anathematize our earthly comforts， curse our surfeits³⁵

    and submissions³⁶.

    I think I know， though I might rather not， why my roofers stay so clear

    to me and why the rest，

    the terror of that time， the reflexive disbelief and distancing， all we should

    hold on to， dims so.

    I remember the president in his absurd protective booties， looking

    absolutely unafraid， the fool.

    I remember a woman on the front page glaring across the misty³⁷ Sus-

    quehanna at those looming³⁸ stacks.

    But， more vividly³⁹， the men， silvered with glitter from the shingles⁴⁰， cling-

    ing like starlings beneath the eaves.

    Even the leftover⁴¹ carats of tar in the gutter⁴²， so black they seemed to suck

    the light out of the air.

    By nightfall kids had come across them： every sidewalk on the block was

    scribbled⁴³ with obscenities and hearts.

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