Afternoon sunlight flits / through willow branches / dangling like fern frond / shadows dancing / in my lap / across the tea table beside me / to the wall beyond. / The last doll left at home / stares vacantly / neglected / beside old books. / Maybe a cup of tea / will do me good.
Wrenching grief gives way / to a strange numbness / sunlight can’t dispel. / People I barely knew / or not at all / from eighty nations / meeting in elevators / encased in steel skeletons / bulleted up up up and up / through glass windows / on top of the world / gone one September morning / in a movie reel war /
roiling through skyscraper canyons / now running running running down / in grit-choked dark here, there, nowhere. / I clasp morning papers / like a Bible to my heart / and weep over the tragedy / ashes mixed with ashes / — who can tell the difference / between gray and grey? / The last doll left at home / stares vacantly. Forsaken. / A cup of tea does little good.
~ Lines written for the first anniversary of the September 11th event