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the
flowers at los alamos
•
north of the city under the barking sun
the sprawl of buildings,
sanitary,
military spaced,
anonymous
as hospital grounds,
ringed by high chainlink fence
and signs.
at the entrance gate,
soldiers
who
speak politely, point
with sharp gestures back toward
the
main highway,
hands
near their sidearms.
not far away, outside the fenceline
a grove of trees, scattered patches
of
flowers among sharp-edged rocks.
having no guidebook to desert flowers
i give them names:
desert wish,
bluefinger,
silver thistle,
yellow
sage.
quiet in the insatiable light,
petals
neat
as military collars, they hold
poised and wait: for lab results,
some
piece of news, words
beyond
mortal comprehension.
this is a place where the crime is innocence.
the chilly balancing of checking accounts,
an
inventory sheet with names
of
the lost, meat loaf
for lunch in the
cafeteria, face
goes blank at the mention of the burned
city,
island
of drained lakes sea of
melting
glass, sand
emitting radio
waves with half-life,
blackboard covered with equations
that
become solid and suddenly explode,
apology
of ignorance, pretending
not
to know.
from a doorway some music,
song
of
a younger time: in this place love
is the certainty
of an insurance policy.
in a red convertible and sport
coat
a
smiling man drives up
to the house, rings
the
doorbell and waits.
in the blue metal sky isotopes tilt
and turn over the widening
shadows
that
reach across the world.
a touch of breeze
stirs the leaves
at the
tops of the poplars.
there will be rain, a
rare
and
unforgettable brightness, the light
of
knowledge,
inundating
the arroyos, the asphalt flats,
lighting
the rose-green hills.
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