Weekly Poem: We Considered Ourselves

                              with quotes from the Department of Energy’s Waste Isolation Pilot Plant

The towers on Sandia Crest transmit
through sunset    in some other home, Smokey
Bear is dead like a pop song
on a distant radio      I keep
toying with the dials   flipping the brights in a code
here no one remembers     the first fire,
distant suns or one close star.    

Who are the cacti, the Rio, and the Sandias?
What continues to move us? A roaming spot
passed through me.     Carl Sagan’s singing blues
for a Sunday afternoon on the red
planet, when our laments were uncategorized.

Not far from here we have buried plutonium
in a tight vault    our historians erected
a sign: “This is not a place of honor,
not a holy landmark. Nothing valued is here.
The danger is still present in your time
as it was in ours.”

Only the finished places are shunned.




This piece was written by:

Amaris Ketcham's photo

Amaris Ketcham

I am an honorary Kentucky Colonel and regular contributor to the arts and literature blog, Bark. I teach writing and publishing in the University of New Mexico’s Honors College. I received my MFA in Creative Writing from the Inland Northwest Center for Creative Writers at Eastern Washington University. In my free time, I am often occupied with open space, white space, CMYK and RGB, flash fiction/essays, long trails, f-stops, line breaks, and/or several Adobe programs running simultaneously.

Contact Amaris Ketcham

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