Fallout Shelter
by Kathleen Kimball-Baker
I thought it would be
like this: thin, glowing communion
wafers, drifting down from god-blue skies.
I imagined a cascade of slow death for all
that mattered—my room, my six allowed
library books, mornings of fog that rolled
down the foothills, then lifted all at once,
swimming lessons and lifeguards,
lemony magnolia blooms,
my one-speed bike.
If a flake of fallout were to touch me,
they said, my skin would blister
and peel, I’d catch leukemia
and it would push out my hair
and make me bald.
I’d probably bleed from my nose
and other places we don’t talk about.
Even though the glowing wafers might look
pretty, I understood I should never
touch them.
All the ready people knew that fallout
meant they should hurry to their concrete
bunker—if they had one.
For us, the shelter of civil defense
would have to do; for me—
my mother, her hugs,
her shushing.
