Aged fifteen
I dream
of mushroom clouds
and blinding light
tracing bone skeletons
in ash on footpaths.
Every night I burn
like a shaking monk
like a 9‑year-old
napalm-backed
like a woman
like a wife.
Every night
my screams etch
white-hot runnels
onto eyelids
that won’t open
And here we are again
the call to war.
What chemical nightmares
What vx poison terrors
what anthrax dreams
are visiting our teens?
