Bikinis at the End of the World: Poems

When I was eight, I stared at the sky in front of my suburban Los Angeles home. A blinding flash ripped the sky. I dropped to the ground, flush to the six-inch-high curb near our driveway. I survived. A pocket of non-superheated air saved me. After sitting up, I saw destruction in every direction. I awoke terrified, clutching my chest to see if I was alive. It was a horrible dream. I hope it wasn't a premonition.
Currently, there are more than 12,400 nuclear warheads in the arsenals of nine (known) nations. Approximately 87 percent of the world's nukes belong to two of them: Russia (5,580) and the United States (5,225). Compelled to revisit the realm of my childhood nightmare, I wrote a collection of poems primarily about nuclear war-its provenance, its terrifying aftermath, and its potential extinction. I fear the planet my children-all our children-will inherit. I want it to be a verdant Earth, not a world destroyed by human carelessness. These poems are a klaxon. (As if we needed another reminder.) Tonight, when I go to bed, I will dream big-like my grandmother used to say-of a better world.-Kelvin C. Bias