First it’s a girl, then the world
with half the land greyed out,
then it’s a cloud, then a curl
of smoke with plush debris.
First it’s fifty, then eighty
dollars, marking the years
after the first Fat Man
literally dropped, then
due to high demand
it’s out of stock, then free.
First it’s a protest, mocked
or celebrated in each corner
of the internet, before blessed
by the pope, then the president.
Then it’s everywhere, a mess
of glibness and appropriation,
a traffic jam, big pharma ad,
then a mascot at the Super Bowl.
Once I’ve hoarded every version,
I lock them all away in storage.
When I die the lot is auctioned off
to a man who loves his family
a little less than he knows he should.
Feeling bad, he lets his daughter look
at all the junk, tells her to pick
one thing to bring back home.
Of course she eyes the original,
their haircuts eerily alike.
But instead, she grabs his hand,
and their hug has a half-life
of fifty, then eighty years,
for she visits his grave
even when she’s too old
to walk without assistance,
caressing his headstone,
surrounded by dolls
the groundskeeper allows
all year, mowing around
the pile in arcs of empathy
a spy satellite notes first
as an anomaly, then threat.
Then a nation holds its breath.

© 2026 Thomas Mixon