The Blue Dots

Tattoos on my aging belly.
Not princesses or wookies or x-wings–but blue dots.
Targets for lasers seeking microscopic death stars.
Friendly planets are collateral damage.

The smoldering smell of skin is imaginary.
The radiation burns are real.

Do re me fa sol la te dosemeter.
Daily death units amass to sixty – torpor takes over.
Months and even years, the doses will fade away.
But not the tattoos, never the tattoos.

Meanwhile I wait to see if there will be a sequel.

P.S. Nolf

 
If you have any thoughts about this poem, P.S. Nolf would be pleased to hear them