Nuclear skies illuminated South Sacramento as I foraged for supplies. The fallout washed my shadow and I in neon streaks. Full-grown children reclaim abandoned toys at ground zero. A return to broken playgrounds and no accountability. I bury my frustration under great shovelfuls of sorrow. It seems she had always been a tourist. Learning a foreign language in cram sessions of borrowed time. Now when she opens her mouth, it's in the old language. And there is no translation for forgetfulness, victimhood and dust.
11:47 a.m. - 2018-01-08
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