After the life of Kevin Bryson

By a tall fire I want to hug, 

I know Cesium-137 

traveled from Atomic Age detonation 

into the water cycle. 

Since marking residence 

inside me, it pushes me

and pushes me to clock happiness 

minutes inside the domain 

of some picket-fence trap.

Cesium-137 says 

what’s best is snatching a family 

to live as grass blades 

sculpted to perfection. 

By a tall fire I want to hug,

shadows lick my face

like a greyhound when a husband

returns home into gracious arms. 

No one is waiting for me

through a red desire door 

but Cesium-137

bombards my being 

I must slap on some flesh 

to the cutout wife and cutout children 

basking in my mind’s glow.

By a tall fire I want to hug,

Cesium-137 only sees what I am not;

it does not know my history. 

Look up. The Capricornus Constellation 

stared down one light-year ago

upon my sister Elizabeth at 17 

swerving to miss a neighborhood dog.

When she rammed into a street pole, 

I capitulated headfirst through the windshield

onto Massachusetts gravel 

as Elizabeth’s bodiless screams 

ballooned into our family calamity.

Where is my sister? Where is my sister?

still echoing.

With my once mighty fire 

reaching a low ember, 

I trace my forehead scar. 

Yes, Cesium-137 scratches within. 

Can I bludgeon that radioactive haunt?

Give me a lifetime 

and I’ll bear witness.