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169 It Kept on Burning Elizabeth at Seabrook Kevin Clark —Nuclear power protests, 1977 Even today, brushing blush on my cheeks, I can re-imagine the turning face Of that young guardsman irradiated By dawn sun—or the fissured power plant. He said, Ma’am, you know my orders: It’s time To separate the men from the women. One afternoon walk I’d seen a flower Arranged in a Fibonacci sequence Of new helical rays. What was its name? The artist says beauty walks math spirals Out past numbers, out past all reason. That’s a moment to live for, isn’t it? On the damp armory floor, the men sat In circles, then the women around them. At the center were piled our tied shoes. We were surrounded by a tight square Of masked soldiers holding shields, Billy clubs. I stood to tell the lieutenant of our Consensus pact: The instant a guardsman Touches any one of our group, every Man and woman will strip naked. Like that, Rouge shadows blossomed on his cheeks the way A thumb touch might shame any fresh petal Into darkness. Their retreat took seconds. Then we sat alone in the new silence. I had always believed that peace was won Unarmed in the face of odds.—Who could know Naked skin would send them into shadow. They gave up and let us out. For two days 170 A Face to Meet the Faces I slept and dreamed. At first the nuke sent up A mushroom cloud. Then night, distant voices, My mother, a ring of linked friends, moonlight. I’m strolling through the wetlands, alone, Wearing only my hiking boots. The sucking Muck holds steps like kisses. Fibonacci Florets billow in the sky. When I wake, That flower’s lost name burns me alive. ...

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