“if you see something, say something”
the first plane struck when we were
in middle school, and I swore it was
because sixth grade Is never easy—
ridden with snide remarks and smells
like sweaty bodies after gym class, radar
intercepted by social circles and theatre rehearsals
the second plane struck
a few years later: how you hid in dark rooms
and scurried down staircases, an ice machine rumbled
just like whirring flangers pedals from the top
of our steps. I saw, I saw your greasy hair, a grunge phase
stained sweatpants, a head held down facing concrete sidewalks.
the third plane struck
two years ago. you stared down into the grand canyon
its rusted hinges swirling past the horizon
my eyes, hijacked by a little broken bird
of a boy who trotted along winding edges,
a 110-story drop home to plastic flowers and burning incense.
if I cried an I Love You loud enough to clear each cloud
who kept my heavy head afloat, would it have mended your wings?
it wasn’t until
the south tower collapsed over an upstairs banister at home
when sunrise peeked through window panes and school day was almost in session.
my eyes, blinded, matted in rubble 500 miles away. how
how could i have known
to utter a single word during dinner sitting in silence
as sharp as the knife that cut our easter ham.
vision blurred by rose colored smog.
the north tower had fallen eleven weeks after the south
in the land of the rising sun, but sun had been swallowed by smoke.
the world was swallowed in smoke. my eyes, swallowed in smoke.
we flew through a haze so fatal, so deadly it made
17 years tumble in 102 minutes.
the towers fell
people seem to see
clearly but we always
fail to speak
