Even Namazu Sinks at Hiroshima

There is something so silent
about air slinging through a world, something
so heavy. Like uranium.

Then at 11:02am, the sky turns bright.

There is a silent click, a sudden cry,
the sound of teeth clenching tight.

We see her falling, with teeth bared wide,
lungs shattered into frames.

She begs to wade once more,
but that is too much to ask.

She never sees the earth or soft
lights, and the pines will no longer rest
safely along her spine.

Her gills start melting ice-blue into her skies
and her ribs tremble silver into white.

Nippon falls and seabed rises, and legends
and temples and luminous
bodies fission into dust.

There is nothing left for us anymore.

So we take a bite
of rust.

________

Amy Zhou is a high school writer at The College Preparatory School in Oakland, California. She has been recognized for her writing by The New York Times, the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers, Frontier Poetry, and Hollins University. An alumna of Iowa Young Writers’ Studio and the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship Program, she serves as the Editor-in-Chief for her school’s newspaper, The Radar, and literary publication, The Steele. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in PANK Magazine, Diode Poetry Journal, Eunoia Review, The Rising Phoenix Review, among others.