Seen from satellite view, the abandoned Uranium mine on our reservation Is an earth-scar that’s shaped Like a haphazard guitar.
The sound hole of this instrument Is the open pit Now filled with water Made turquoise
By irradiated waste. I grew up six miles From that deadly place And only a hundred yards
From the road traveled By the transport trucks. I inhaled uranium dust— A thousand thousand grains—
With every breath. None of us, especially The young, knew How dangerous it was.
There’s no mystery here. There’s no need To find motive or alibi. Mr. Death is waiting
At the airport for his Lyft. He’ll eventually arrive At my front door. He’ll say he’s traveled far.
He’ll play me a song On his radioactive guitar.
Radioactive Love Song