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In a bald skull sits our friend.

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In a helmet of
third-degree burns,

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her quizzical, melancholy
grace, her irreplaceable self

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in utter peril.

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In the radioactive desert
walks a woman in a black dress,

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white-haired, steady as the
luminous hand of a clock.

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In circles she walks,
knitting and unknitting

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her scabbed fingers.

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Her face is expressionless.

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Shall we pray to her?

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Shall we speak of the
loose pine needles,

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how they shook like the
pith of country summers

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from the sacks of pitchblende
ore in the tin roof

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shack where it all began?

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Shall we accuse her of
denial first of the self,

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then of the mixed virtue
of the purest science?

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Shall we be wise for
her in hindsight?

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Shall we scream, it
has come to this?

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Shall we praise her?

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Shall we let her wander
the atomic desert in peace?