a mushroom cloud
waxing like leathered boots—
like their snap on the stairs
home from work
hungry
whose room waits above
and who within it—
perhaps a bare tree huddled against winter gusts
a saint’s finger propped in a reliquary for onlookers
an entire town grown deep astride high mesas
nature’s walls, to hide the forging of weaponry
within and without refrain
a terrible home both in and out
the clomp of a heavy trod
home from the mill
the place that grinds the nuclear elements
to dust, which snows upon
the family inside, and freezes into icicles
on the eaves
from the belltower
peals an old chorus: remember you are dust
in the high room
the trill of this song
snaps the glass ice from the overhangs
no material nips
like leather does, climbing
to the room, where the bell swings
boots will try to mill a child into dust
and she will fuse into an explosive
they will place her
in a beautiful case
for the penitent to look upon
have you ever considered the silence
that expands upon detonation
so holy so bright
Lauren Swift is pursuing an MFA at the University of California, Irvine. Her poetry and nonfiction have appeared in or are forthcoming in Cimarron Review, North American Review, The Rumpus, and Utterance Journal.