The most profound
Memory of the blast
Is not in its enormity of sound.
Nor is it the yellow-orange heat
From its searing core.
It is, rather, its concussive impact.
An enormous hand
With bolt-like quickness
Dug the heel of its hand
Into my sternum
Within milliseconds.
My breath was exported
Like millions of tiny miners
Exploiting my lungs of their
Precious breath.
Within my skull
The concussion bounced my grey matter
From side to side
Up and down
Until my place in the universe
Was uncertain.
There are social equivalents.
Her goodbye was
Explosive.
My breath
My heart and mind
Were compressed
With unmitigated authority
Of enormous proportions
Until I was devoid of reason
And I was disarmed
Shoved into the soil
Left for dead.
Never to return
She observed
And quantified my destruction
In order to, I suppose
Learn to develop
A better bomb
With which to exact more extensive ruin
To another target on a distant day.
I recovered, slowly.
There are lessons from the blast.
Never disregard shadows.
Do not walk too quickly.
Look around always.
Step lightly, but when committed, step certainly.
Listen carefully to your footsteps
To environmental resonance.
Had I done so
Those misapprehended triggers may have
warned me.
I am whole and well
But I live within the moment.
The concussive application
Of even a kiss
Is fraught with the potential
Of mutually assured destruction.
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