Do stones dream of fossils crushed in their core,
A laminated past peeling like skin?
Glaciation left behind rock cities,
Forsaken towns with streets leading nowhere,
Wide desolate avenues that we would
Read with our feet and animal hurdles.
Then, my grandmother worked at the only
Commercial nuclear fuel reprocessing
Facility. Once, we visited her
And came home with tiny black specks of void,
Solid nuclear waste, packaged like presents
Or the keen scrutiny of a goat’s eye.
Before we left, they brandished a silent
Device that measured our radiation.
I remember holding my breath and
Dreaming of life among the wasted past.