Otto Hahn’s Journal, 1938

The atom tore.
Not cracked – ripped, shrieked as it came apart.
The numbers don’t lie.
This should not happen.

Strassmann laughs, sharp and wrong.
“We broke it,” he says.
Not a theory. Not a guess.
A law, snapped like brittle bone.

I press my hand to the lab table.
The world tilts.
The beam bends.
The air – thickened. 
Not by will. Not by permission.
The smallest thing
inside it, not silence, not order
a wolf, caged too long.

This won’t stay here.
It will crawl out.
Wrap its hands around throats.
Pull cities into its mouth.

I burn my notes.

Too late.