story485.xml

story485.xml

born-digital

story

yes

no

2002-05-01

SEPTEMBER 11TH

8:46 Herb calls --
A plane crashed
Into the World Trade Center.

I turn on tv --
flames, smoke, a black hole
Through the heart of New York City.

9:02 a second plane,
two craters, smoke surges,
frenzied flames lash the sky.

My ears shut. I don't want to linger
More truncated than I am.
Fear won't scorch me.
Eyes up, I march to the bank notary,
wanting to ask each person I pass --
Do you know?

Inside, whispers of horror.
I, who don't know how to cry, tears drop.
Someone proclaims -- It's the fault
of the liberals.

Three blocks to Voice Stream --
My new, expensive phone, a weak signal
since day one. The manager unlocks the glass door,
explains, We are closing due to today's events.
Other stores closing, closed, closed.

Fifteen minutes have drooped our shoulders,
Tear-streaked faces, hushed voices.
We walk weighted by shock, loss.
Communal sorrow - echoes of Kennedy, King.
A pyre of thousands.

I open my front door, run to the blaring pone.
My son - Do you know, terrorists?

No; oh yes,
the tv said Terrorists.

Now only channel 25. Stuttering
Replays forward/back -
planes, smoke,
flames, people fleeing,
Osama bin Laden,
Afghanistan. War.

Watching,
nailed to the couch and phone,
to hear family and friends.
my son, sick, at home, his wife called -
Their office - like an earthquake;
all in the building ran to the cellar.
Management won't let them out.

I wish the attackers instant death
until sanity softens rage.

Next day I hunt in my closets
for our 48-star flag washed last night.
Wooden flagpole in my hand, where is
our folded red, white and blue
shelved since Vietnam?

I need to drape it form our 2nd floor window
to wave
America
This country, Ellis Island, my family,
when others slammed their doors shut.

I search between bulky sweaters, paper goods, a faded shirt, tax records.
Oh, the red bled into the yellowed white.
I tossed it out.

I buy a rhinestone pin -
our flag made of stardust,
and tape a paper flag to my front door,
my car window, on top of a gift box.
I see stripes and stars in every size:
on entrance and lobby doors, on men's lapels,
in shop windows, next to Korean, Chinese, Arabic alphabets.

The red and white bars - steel beams,
the stars - rivets,
our World Trade Center.


This poem was read at the National Poetry Month @ The Writer's Voice of the West Side Y: After 9/11, Curated by Jane Herschlag. April 10th, Writer's Voice, 5 West 63rd, New York, NY