After J. Robert Oppenheimer, 1904-1967

When he says, I am become death,

the destroyer of worlds, who exactly in the world

does he think he is? He has created

all fire and light and future

and suddenly the chance

that the future can go forever

up in smoke, as if time’s potential absence

has now been named. He is, he does.

He reels with giddy naming, solemn naming,

the stolen naming that becomes him.

The implosion becomes a star’s crater.

The desert becomes glass.

The impossible becomes the remembered.

The words shimmer and cut, radiant shards

from the mouth of decay.

Thank goodness he said something. Had he said

nothing, we would be left with the impression

that something could have been said.