Nine-Eleven Comes Again





None of us could imagine

the length of this grief.

Years later I still stand

outside La Guardia, no safe place

to call from, to say

I’m okay. I was

on a different plane. No,

really. Let the others know.

Yes, this might be war.


Wanting even then to love all

the maimed, the weak, the low

in spirit who leaned on me, who

spilled my drink, stole my seat,

my book, my silver spoon, but

now I’m tired. I do not love

those hooded men who hate me.


I wish they were a different species.

At midnight my dog wants out.

I wait by the open door, hear

distant coyotes howl—bloodlust.

I hurry back inside.

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