Sarah D's NaPoWrimo 2022

 You are important. Satellites can find you, disguised as loveless stars. You are the centre of some universe that intersects with mine, great galactic storms. People know your name, a few of them, dear ones. On the right tongue, it may be an incantation You glint, needle,  haystack You matter, are matter You are also light, speed, enough for any equation. If the mathematics fail and bruise tell me where it hurts. If you say here, I'll soothe it, and there, and there, like counting freckles

In response to a selfie where her face is lined and old  she put on a sheet mask, She wear a white mask  , she wear a face mask- puts me in my mind of mexican wrestlers si, es  una luchador or a burns victim, or from an early film, yeux sans visage. It's not for your protection, but for a little bit of vanity, for the readiness to fight ; Yes,she-with that codKaren cut, reflected with her  long plain face, look at her now, la luchador. She has twisted the Spanish to fit her gender, the agenda to fit her disguise. As wrestlers take the guise of saints and barrio devils she moisturises and hydrates, She tries to keep in character, appears at the front door like a vision; shadow Amazon ghosts, this is un traje  , this is a trick of confidence Eyes are seen when mouths cannot be seen. In masks we lay the wrappings on, in masks,  we pass the same, the same

Inspired by the anniversary of Hiroshima.. The Colonel never lost a night's sleep on the deal but he stole the sun that day, repurposed it. This is what He said -  the Bomb had no more and no less moral consequence than any other weapon, the knife, the gun, no conscience. But the silver body banked and tilted after the gift was given - see,the colours were as terrible and unnatural as the seep from a crack in the vault of heaven or hell. He wrote himself a half life, Geiger counted- his Mother named Enola Gay, he her little Boy, sleeping murderous safe, the bomb in his cradle, as the host sang radio songs. If the Major dreamt of an imagination, what nightmares he might see, or wake with the sense of a mission never ending, each midnight on course over the human target. And the woulda coulda shoulda banality of course corrections, moral micro adjustments for the routine apocalypse, a job well done for the destroyer of worlds, The blinkered pilot momentarily blinded by another sun