Wednesday at noon
the sirens went off.
Miss Schreckengost
herded us down
to the musty cellar
where we were talked to
by the school nurse
one week, a soldier
the next, on what to do
if there was a flash,
a mushroom cloud.
Russia was far,
but over the Pole
the bombers might come.
Our Nike missiles
sat ready and armed,
but just in case,
we needed to know
to duck and cover,
take shelter, wait for
the Geiger counter
count, the all-clear
siren, the hope
that our teeth and hair
would not fall out,
that cows would yield
safe milk to drink
that did not glow.
Back in the class,
new maps arrived.
USSR in red
as big as Europe,
no, bigger.
Miss Schreckengost
sends us to
My Weekly Reader.
There are new words.
"Atheist" is one.
"Atheist," she said,
"does anyone know
what an atheist is?"
No one spoke.
"Anyone who doesn't
believe in God
is an Atheist,"
the teacher explained.
"That's me!" I thought.
I raised my hand
to proclaim it.
Behind me, a voice,
a fellow student,
muttered darkly,
"People like that
should be killed."
I lowered my hand.
Two lessons learned
that day.
