Lament of the Enola Gay
-By Mike Mann
I look down to the bustling metropolis below me, and of what I am going to give birth to.
I alone will bear fruit, the women around me have but phantom pregnancy.
The labor has already begun and there are but few seconds before it will have emerged totally, but I'll be long gone by the time his tantrum begins.
I will be forever and a few miles away when his anger turns fertile soil to red glass three feet deep and rips the air open with a cry that most of the people won't even hear.
My baby will turn that little city down there into vapor, with no sympathy he will demean every man, woman, and child into meek hydrogen peroxide and carbon monoxide.
My metal birth canal dilates fully, now, and I watch my artificially inseminated child fall and I whisper to the disgraceful child, "I will never be proud of you."