A big part of me would really like to store 9/ll in a plastic bag and not think about it any more.
Another part of me thinks that would not be such a great idea (even if I could do it in downtown NYC where I live.)
First, because we still have young men and women actively serving in Afghanistan, as a direct response to the event. Secondly, because the day provides such important cautionary tales. Third, well, because I swore not to forget it.
So here’s an older poem, and above and below are photos I took in downtown NYC this a.m. I’ve also included a (rather fraught) reading of the poem.
9/11
The burning buildings woke me from a sleep
of what I thought important, nothing now.
I ran hard down the smoking, crumbling street,
praying that my child was mine to keep,
dear God oh please dear god I whispered loud;
the burning buildings woke me from a sleep.
Some stopped to stare, all of us to weep
as eyes replayed the towers’ brutal bow.
I ran hard down the smoking, crumbling street–
North sky a startling blue, the south a heap
of man-wrought cloud; I pushed against the crowd;
the burning buildings woke me from a sleep.
I’d never complain again, never treat
with trivial despair–or so I vowed.
I ran hard down the smoking, crumbling street.
I’d change, give thanks—I saw them leap—
and begged for all the grace God would allow.
The burning buildings woke me from a sleep;
I ran hard down the smoking, crumbling street.
I’m linking this to dVerse Poets Pub’s Open Link Night, hosted by the wonderful Brian Miller.
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