To Miss Enola Gay

Miss Miss, I am your husband in the ash.

    I miss my mother and my city.
My home has gone beneath your sexy fingernails.
    You danced with me until my eyes became transparent.

Enola, how I learned to live beside your constant bickering
    with the father, my mother
        was once you inside my womb.

Your heat is my distance and my nearness.

I have become seduced by my creator, and Einstein loves his clocks.
    The radio plays red balloons in German.


Miss Enola, I love thee at the mushroom center,
    how you changed the mood of satire,
and left us all wondering and

peering through opaque life,

where hell could be
    on the surface.