Atomic Reality

Mikaela says:
They've got me thinking about all things nuclear.

Democracy Now reports that an insider has come forward with information that Cheney's office is asking intelligence agencies to cook the books about Iran's nuclear capabilities much like they did in order to justify invading Iraq for WMDs in the complete absence of evidence for WMDs.

That and the controversy over the inequitable treatment of Israel's nuclear capability vs. other Middle Eastern countries.

And our focus on nuclear energy as a viable option, coupled w/ news that researchers have found a way to speed the half-life of certain radioactive metals, so that instead of taking 10,000 years to become "safe," it takes 5,000. Not really a "solution" but clearly will be used to increase the optimism of human control over radiation. [Heard on Living on Earth, October 27]

The reality on the ground for those working with these materials is often overlooked. This poem, written by Jeffrey Hillard, from Atomic Ghost: Poets Respond to the Nuclear Age, sums up for me the working man's perspective on the risk we ask him to take.

The Message

I want the sign to read, never come back again.

Instead, it reads, Safety Is A Man’s Best Friend.

I know each one: Alert! above the utility room.

Know Your Goggles near the loading docks.

I have partners who can’t spell half the words,

each orange letter a directive that keeps our

sleeves buttoned and hard-hats within reach.

A mishmash of phrases that exalt our lungs

above any skill; words bold as hot metal,

composed in some super’s office, under a cool fan.

They’ll never convince me that I’d burn myself

or remove my gloves near a blasting furnace

or breathe the fumes from a lead vat

rimmed with sulfuric acid.

I don’t need signs to echo my flaws.

A Careless Employee Is A Disaster In Uniform.

I already load sludge and leave my body

to the eyes of a detector scanner.

Since I drive a forklift, I look ahead,

not above. Today, something is different.

I imagine the tar-black walls swelling,

tiers of sludge frothing over the catwalks,

my lead shield coming apart, dust floating past.

I salvage my thoughts, especially after lunch.

I know it’s dangerous, but I’ll steer the lift

near a pit and join a crew for a cigarette.

We take three puffs, crush them on our hard-hats

and drop them in a shirt pocket. Safe, not sorry.

I’m not yet relieved. I imagine another sign

saying, All bodily cells replaced here,

but the wisdom I receive is Shower Thoroughly.

I find a blessing in each thump of the time-clock,

in the exit gate, in the sign whose broken letters

remind us to dump uniforms in the black barrel.

I say to no on in particular I do, I do.

I think, what else can I give? What else

do they want from a man whose name is duty

and paycheck, a man who sheds these clothes

like they’re footprints to be mopped and forgotten.