don't rise from their ashes as dry remains collected in labeled
specimen jars given not the dignity of graves--no little moundsto
mark one's place, another sacrifice embraced by Moloch's white-hot
arms, rammish stench of rotting flesh and leukemia-ridden bones,
crematoria of blue phosphorescent flickering torches from Paleolithic
This museum's graphics of annihilative
power cloaked in pseudological words, one world subsumes another
vanishing behind the tain of history's distorted reflections,
mausoleums of unburdened bodies breaching a room with a Tinkertoy
ceiling; afterbodies plotted through disclosures of digitized
meanderings through terrain outside mind's mathematics counting
on Promethean chains.
The Mother of Necessity bares spectral faces of hibakusha
children whose ashes are contained in jars of faith in which
we store each other.