Ground Zero

Mouthfuls weren't enough, sky didn't quench our thirst. Giant clouds rolling over the horizon, we sucked up houses during benders and spit them out early in the morning. Tractors moving over fields of desperate grain, we chucked the chaff and sucked down the golden seeds. Then the whirlwind came, kissing us then leaving our wheels stuck in mud and our boddies shredded into white threads. We saw her eyes at night before we slept, and we shot up in our nighmares, because of fiery images of her nuclear thunderstorms, her lips turning every part of our bodies into Ground Zero. When our friends found us, we were sucking the desert ground with a straw, radioactive sand that burned our noses and scarred our chests; for a thousand years, through reincarnations to come, we would be untouchable, even by love.