Poem: February 11, 2019

Association

It's strange. I thought of 9/11 today.
Who knows where these thoughts come from.
I pictured the television in the English office
at school. Grainy. The first tower was on fire,
sliced and nothing made sense.

I had been giving the state-mandated test
for easily two hours, and had been relieved
by a colleague who, as we passed at the door,
said, "You need to check out what happened
in New York. It's unreal. Unreal."

And then the second tower was hit.
Was it live? It seemed so. I remember it
that way. And I carried that image
and all of its questions back into testing.
What a thing not to tell someone.
What a way to have to pretend.

But that's not what I wanted to say.
I thought of that moment, but then I thought
about you and a photograph I took of you
that must have been shortly after the attack,
and shortly before your mother and I
decided to call it quits.

You would have been four, your sister one,
it was a bright fall day, and I remember
that it was the first really cool day
of September. You were wearing a red
hooded sweatshirt, and your sister
had on yellow, and her hair was a mess.

You were holding her, propped against
your lap. You were on your knees
and the green of the trees was bright
in the background. The sky a striking blue.

The white trail of a jet worked its way
across that blank blue canvas.
And you were both beautiful and
I think about how true that moment was,
and then how full of lies.