Returning to Babel

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It’s come full circle, this life of mine, raised as a babe in that cold nuclear shadow, every plane a threat, every whistle of the wing discerned while I waited perched on banana seat, with captured breath, for the sound of the blast at the end, wondering should I duck and cover. Back then I was a child, I never understood, fully, the taking of a life, as I gleefully chased ants across sand, single focused on my task, magnifying glass in hand. And now, when my time should be full of golden years, I’ve returned to the thought of genocide-become the marching ant-desperately trying to escape burning rays and small minds with weapons in their hands, looking, as I once did, to stain cement with flaming flesh until nothing is left but ash. I deserve it – I guess – retribution for a dozen dead ants .

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