A mushroom cloud fills the screen on the evening news,
a white flower blooming in pale atomic blues.

The boy looks up from mashed potatoes
his fork still hanging in the air.

“Mama, what is that?”
“I dont know” the mother says.
“But it’s far away from us — It won’t happen here”.

The mother turns the volume down,
but the silence feels heavier than the sound.

Her eyes fixed on the screen, colors pale,
a white bloom rising slowly like a quiet, fatal tale.

The mother says, “It’s not for us”, but her voice has changed,
as if she heard the lie before the words were framed

The mother find the proper word,
a word that doesn’t burn, a word that doesn’t shake,
The screen keeps glowing blue against the kitchen walls,

“Mama, what is that?”
“I dont know”, the mother says.
“Eat your mashed potatoes — they’re getting cold”.