Chernobyl
Nature will reclaim
but cannot erase civilization.
Something will survive as evidence
of man’s illusion of permanence,
like that mural of a cosmonaut
waving his banner of hammer and sickle
in this room
littered with the skeletons of pigeons.
Branches grow through broken windows
and pause at my shade, afraid.
Outside, the city remains recognizable.
The streets we walked have not disappeared.
Asphalt may crack but will outlast a forest.
The plastic bottles we left behind
will witness the destruction of earth.
This room was ours.
Here is our bed, the table
where we shared our meals.
Here, I remain after you left.
My fists have turned into hammers
and my legs sickles.
Let me hug you again.