Hiroshima Mon Amour

Love, She, meets War, He:

She is a blood-crusted gauze
cradles the flaws of discretion
which lessen the count of nostrils
that share the air. He is a

jagged wound swooned by ice daggers,
phallic-iron barrels, orphans
and widows with infant worms,
stern blood hugs tangled limbs.

Close up views, hues of black
and white, skin scorched, tingles
the finger tips of she
as she grips him in a vague
embrace, the scars melt
the body heat of Germany with
Japan's, a set of hands, wrists,
forearms and elbows twist,
a kiss ignites a familiar
corpse. He thinks she knows nothing
but she knows everything.

Like an atom bomb he
incinerates the petrified
skin on her heart, scrapes the bottom
and finds a reflection
of himself, it bleeds until
his corpse encases his breath.
The scars remain. They breed
on the backs, arms, eye sockets
and minds, mock admirable
decline. He thinks she knows nothing
but she knows everything.

Her tongue is torn. The part closest
to the spine has incomplete
sentences, a reference
to Love’s embrace of lost touches.

The latter fulfills the need
for questions, current actions
feel the same. Is he the blame
or she?