OPPENHEIMER MAPS HIS COORDINATES
After so much time in the desert
I’m always finding myself at water.
The black and bloated little men
Point to the back of my head and warn,
You have no friends on that shore.
I collect them in a net
and probe them, my little cadavers.
Little brains, little hearts.
Mine—and cute, like the jarred fetal pig in biology class.
I made these.
They call me father.