no sirens.
They expected sound but
outside the hospital was
silent, and the ready
gurneys were light.
Physicians idled at St. VIncent's
but at "Ground Zero"
priests were rounding
blessing buckets of body parts.
Exemplar bomberos appeared
raced in, unleashed fountains and streams,
fanned blue flames of
courage, the blue before tungsten,
under which the scrapers fell, folded
in living color, in slow motion, live, in
"real time," "on air"—
then, nothing
as cameras rolled.
amid veil and pall
into kingdom
finally come
home
Not here, no war here
in the great metro-
polis I love
Not here
on the island
of my
birth
not here where
my rivers
and ocean
meet in a
V
not war here
broken
at the confluence
of my broken waters
not in the mouth
where I crowned
where I gave
birth
5
Most masked, the living crossed over
bridges
from the island of Manhattan to safety
to the relative safety counties of
Kings and Queens promise.
Two of my children and I watched the dead-eyed procession along 7th Avenue
two miles from Ground Zero. White ash and
Black cloud clung cutaneous, to skin, leveling, bestowing
a dove-grey oneness.
On the Manhattan side, war’s ash coated windpipes. Even as those who made it
out moved like ghosts.
War's ash blocked airways
in stairways and throats
occluded voice.
The “lucky”
made it
out,
poured forth
into the din,
dropping
shoes, bags and water
bottles as all hell broke
naive hearts
and
loose
and caved
in
on itself
as Minoru Yamasaki’s
wonder is
underwent a conversion by force
angel
abattoir
Blood rushed forth. Altitude filled with shadow. God stood by.
God as cornerman.
Home-field diety
Sacrifice
Fly
6
I waited outside our home near the corner
of Union and 7th 1.5 miles from where
winged murderers, martyrs who began the day with prayer,
who prayed their instruments might hold, who asked God
to blessed their fire
of purification
to consecrate their mission
to slam air-
craft into Yamaski’s framed tubes.
7
Who am I to call out, Oh God,
not here, not here in America
the so-called beautiful!
Who am I with my charmed life,
to cry, not here on the island
of my birth, not
here where
my rivers and ocean
meet in a
V
not here at
the mouth
where I was born
(natus/NATO) where I gave
birth
not here
in the nation
where --
not my
waters
Not here, not where I live, where just 20 minutes before the first air-
craft hit, my-first born stood holding the hand of his father, underground
waiting for a connecting train just below Yamasaki's structure...
8
I watched the sky fill
from Union.
I prayed aloud on my corner
in frozen time, as people pray
every day in all corners
of the globe
to that same God
the pilots invoked
as they carried out
the plan to slam their streamlined
silverine weaponry into Yamasaki's clean design
to that same God
the firefighters who carried out
the body of that brave priest
to that same God
I begged for n hour that morning
to send me the voice of my boy
The pilots prayed
to the one cornerman, God
on their side, God summoned
to their cockpit.
Who am I to demand,
"get over here" to my corner
of Union and 7th,
where my Ave Marias
were punctuated by the clink
of quarters going in?
One hand on the stroller,
the other in the hand of Maria.
Me with my perfect and imperfect loves and charmed existence,
having the temerity
to think "not here, not here
on this holy ground
where I pray
to the same God
that ordered the hit,
not here Miriam.
O please, Allah. Please,
restore to me,
my son and his father.
So-called "Father"
who takes neither prisoners nor sides,
who takes life and grants it,
So-called God
the morning’s
assassins aimed to please,
God of Sacrifice,
God of Fly
Here, so near to where claw-back archangelare recalled to God’s midst
So near to where rescuers breathe into nostrils,
animate like God into dust,
Here among Pietà bodies
9
I beheld how God’s name swirls cool and sweet even in the stench of smoke
I beheld God’s outstretched, power-jacked arms
I beheld God’s triumphal trumpeting emissaries
We beheld God ascending into hell
bringing life out
of dust
We beheld the miracle of aviation
We beheld the shrinking of God in the lethal mix of poverty, ignorance and ire
We beheld bodies executed in God's name
I beheld hell fire raised in God's name
We behold hell fire raised in God's name
We can only watch and weep
in the name
of God who is said
to have made women and men
that he might soothe
his own loneliness
10
And what of these children of mine?
These children I made
for my own joy and pleasure and surplus of love?
What world have I given them?
What have I done?
11
When I arrived in the school office at 10 a.m.
, I found a bleary
staff member pulling blue cards. : "Kids whose parents
work downtown" she said. I knew there had to be a hundred or more.
With her toddler sister on my hip, I pulled Maria out of first grade
minutes after after the second aircraft struck. I broke
as gently as I could the news to the girl teacher:
“There's been some kind of an attack.”
The hip toddler was born at Saint Vincent's
where the trauma team idled.
I sent Maria to school with a loose front tooth.
I wanted to be with her when the blood began.
That smile I knew
would never be the
same again,
its brazen gleam broken by a gape
that row of stars her broad mouth
boasts. No god will bring it back.
Might
something else, something stronger may
sprout
in its place and time
carry on its slow back what
some call
wisdom, which
suffering is often said to grant?
“Don't allow emotion
to run wild,"
said the mayor. "New York is still here.”
But we knew he knew
nothing.
New York was still
here, but black
cloud governed,
acrid breeze called
the dirge. Flame rained, reined —
Toxic motes of once lustrous
meat distilled to ash,
matter created and somehow destroyed,
the white ash and burnt bone,
the human
remains
of the day
remained
in the pit.
Yet souls rose
as spirits fell
and bodies tumbled
from that tower
and calls for blood, calm, prayer
went out and many tongues spoke
in the wake of and ears adhered
as the pain came in waves
of energy and light and sound
at "Ground Zero"
Even as cameras rolled
cadaver dogs nosed,
charred corpses piled up
in a makeshift morgue,
Commander-in-Chief
Chicken Little up from
the Bush League
called down to us
from his clandestine
shifting airborne location
in the natural clouds
and announced that
for those who had been
incinerated, for those
who had perished in flight
for those who had leapt through
Yamaski panes choosing death
by plummeting through
American airspace
over immolation, for
those who had made death
their own, and for those
who loved them,
there would be
justice. The sky was not,
in other words, falling.
But what of peace?
There will be justice
for those who robbed
the skyline of its “jewels,”
justice for those whose bodies
were converted into shadow soot—
12
But what about peace?
I refuse
What about I
refuse to go down
refuse to drown out
on the island.
Refuse to go down
where the rivers meet.
Blessed be Gotham
buoyant
island
of our birth—
13
I prayed the rosary in an empty church.
Prayer to the Mother -- (Mare)
I begin with the Glory
Be…
As it was in the beginning
and is and ever shall be
Some say God made man to ease "his" loneliness.
Him? God on whose side?
These children of mine
These children I made
for my own joy and pleasure
we will float
we will swim forth
I was born
sur- rounded
by
God
on all sides
surrounded on all sides by water
I am
not alone
Borne by these waters
I was born
on an island, I
say God
gave birth
to me
on
this great
island of our birth. this shimmering metropolis
this orb
governed by men,
and this thing— war—
fashioned by men
and strapped
to all of
"man-
kind"
which men elect
to detonate and unleash.
14
What world have I given my terrific loves?
World of Afghanistan, impoverished by vultures?
World of Iraq we savage?
World of Pakistan’s arsenal?
World of United States erstwhile patron to Bin Laden?
World of U.S. that countenances enslavement of females?
World of Saudi U.S. puppet master?
World of both sides of our mouths?
America, land of greed
home of the knave?
America, oil whore.
Manahatta where the banks are beautiful
and schools look like jails?
World of God Television?
What world of shame is it that courses
through my female flesh!
World of never too rich too shallow too famous.
of life
to which pro-
creation,
holy crap
shoot
heat of fire
of love
called me, subjected me,
prompted
me to usher through woman's
flesh
for my joy
into this place
where I was
born
on this great island
where the rivers
join the sea --
What poisoned "Apple"
did I offer them
for a home?
What world will I leave
my
terrific loves,
O, hearts of fire born
surrounded
by water
O, Manhattan Island,
in America the exquisitely beautiful.
where, today,
American's homing vultures have come
to roost ?
What can I give you
seeing
as how I
brought you here?
Hope? For this whom shall I blame?
I blame Hope,
that stubborn wax-winged thug.
Hope, mocked, thick-headed, slow
on the uptake.
Hope in the shape of local heros,
Hope, who flies into glass.
Hope, who makes a meal of the burnt bones of love.
Hope, who gives love a shot when all else fails.
Hope, reckless aviator, who rises above.
What I can give you,
O, trinity born
on this island
of our birth?
Hope, I can give you my faith,
faith in Hope,
rogue flyer
who rises above.
Hope, the fire-eater.
