First,
endless blue.

Then,
steel like knives—
sudden and swift like a blade.
These edges cut at the sky.

The earth moans.

Screaming in the newsroom,
a shaky hand,
the screen paneling backwards.
It’s too fast. The lines blur.

The first wound:
all sharp teeth and ragged edges,
plumes of smoke leaking out like tears,
like blood,
coating the sky an acidic gray.

So much smoke it chokes the sky.

Slowly the first tower bends as if
it’s going to be sick;
a college sorority girl begging for
a friend to pull her hair back as she vomits
into the toilet bowl.

There is no one there to hold her.
The realization is sharp,
metallic.

It is bitter.

There is too much pandemonium on the streets.

People below.
People within.

People who know their time is up.
They accept their fate with open arms. Say a prayer.
They believe in God today. What can it hurt?

Eyes close.
It won’t hurt if I don’t look.

And they step off the edge of the earth.

It is not until after that we realize there’s a second plane.
It sneaks up on us, an assassin.
It creates another gaping wound
for which there is no gauze,
no antiseptic.

This kind of pain blazes.

This sister, this twin,
she will fall and does.
There is no fight left within her.
She bends as her sister before her.
She prays. She knows.

God is busy today.

Her end does not come as quickly,
but it comes.

She is dressed in gray. Her dress is smoke.
She is on fire.

We press our hands to the television screen,
trying to reach those who are trapped.

Imagine
not being able to see the sky again.
Imagine knowing that.
Imagine not knowing that.

Our mouths hang open.
We taste the smoke.
It coats our lungs,
steals our breath.

So much smoke.
It is a sea.

We are mermaids swimming in our own grief.