Flash
  By Jane Lin

Last night I dreamt an end befitting
this town, an obliterating flash
consuming concrete and sky, searing vision
and flesh. This night, my husband, we lie in bed,
you with your book, me with paper and pen,
and the cats walking in relaxed awareness
in the quiet dark of the house––our house
that may be taken away by banks or bombs,
fire, SARS, fall from a canyon wall.
From the complexity of nations
to the minuteness of termites and microbes.
My family pocketed in Toronto and China,
Taiwan where the numbers double
despite quarantine and all the precautions
science knows of, while we are sequestered
by mesas and desert, by the oddity
of Los Alamos, a town of scientists and technicians
who cannot prevent all forms of destruction.
My love, this morning the ground is littered
with lilac blossoms, and the cats watch at windows
for intruder cats, moths, close birds
flitting to the ground, their chirrups
unmitigated by screens.