Calutrons

I remember the thin red needle
that shook and quivered like a young soldier
wading ashore onto Omaha Beach,
its tapered point flicking back and forth
as my unknowing hands robotically twisted dials,
my mind wandered while my mouth chattered
to Gladys sitting next to me—we’d smile for a flash
and continue our discussion of tonight’s events
in our secret city carved from the ridge.
Stepping outside of the windowless labyrinth,
we splashed our saddle shoes into muddy puddles,
our badges—permanent accessories affixed around our necks—
whipping in the wind like the stars and stripes.
We were thankful to be free from factories
and furtive glances thrown our way
by other girls silently focusing on those tiny numbers,
not realizing our whispered wonderings were actually facts.
Our laughter whirled through the humid air
until we were shushed by far-away fingers on triggers,
our dreams filled of boys drowning in red poppies.