When it comes.

When it comes.
By Dru Oja Jay


   Since the late eighties, and the "end" of the cold war, it seems
   we've become accustomed to the idea that nuclear weapons are here to
   stay. Nukes have faded in to the background, fallen from our line of
   site in favour of more visible concerns. And yet, they're still
   there. And now, we're talking about [1]escalating things all over
   again.
   
   There is something missing that we had only a few decades ago. A
   sense of urgency. A sense (and only just a sense) of the horrific
   reality that is constantly so near, and possible. When
   [2]Randomwalks posted "BOMB", by Gregory Corso the other day, it
   made me recall another poem, which my father wrote in 1982. Written
   when the navy was first bringing nuke-carrying submarines into the
   Bangor sub-base, it is told with the specific geography of the Puget
   Sound area in Washington state. Despite, or perhaps because of this
   specificity, the poem taps into something more universal -- the
   essential visceral reality of nuclear weapons.
   
     BANGOR
     When it comes
     it will be quick.
     Your old high school sweetheart
     will be making tuna sandwiches
     for her kids
     in a stucco house in Poulsbo
     Young Ed from work
     will be getting his hair styled
     at the mod barbers in Bremerton,
     hating the thought of swing shift,
     envying the old men playing pool
     across the street.
     That strange girl from days past,
     you could never figure her out,
     but it hurts when your buddies
     mocked her strangeness.
     She will be scuba diving in Hood Canal,
     looking,
     just looking.
     Your oldest boy
     will be reading the P.I. on the ferry,
     home for the weekend,
     thinking about quitting school again,
     troubled by problems
     neither of you see.
     When it comes
     it will be quick.
     The heat will peel
     your old sweetheart like a grape.
     Light blinded
     she searches bravely
     for her moaning children.
     Ed is cut in half
     by plate glass,
     an infinity of surprise
     in the barbers mirrors.
     And that girl
     you could never figure out,
     that strange girl,
     Barbara,
     will be carried by a wave
     into the tree tops
     speared by a burning fir.
     Another wave will catch your boy.
     The red hot ferry will hiss
     as the wave wraps its cold fist around it.
     Where will we be
     when it comes?
     It will be quick.
     We are coaxing it home,
     wooing it down into the strike zone;
     the perfect pitch,
     the last out,
     inevitable.
     Stirring a bad dream with easy lies
     we will wake in flames.
     TOM JAY
     
   Originally published in The Dalmo'ma Anthology, 1982. (out of print)
   Reprinted with permission of the author.

References

   1. http://commondreams.org/views01/0127-04.htm
   2. http://www.randomwalks.com/


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Posted on Monkeyfist at http://monkeyfist.com/articles/738