I Should Never Tell

            I think it better that in times like these
            A poet’s mouth be silent, . . . .
            On Being Asked for a War Poem by W.B. Yeats

I should never tell
where I was when it happened,
how I lamented the beginning
of my ordinary day as I walked
into my office wishing to be home
and peeled four days off my calendar
trying to catch up,
stopping on September 11, 2001
and still did not understand
that damn Far Side cartoon
of a dog frying a cat in a skillet.

Or that I picked up the phone
to make a personal call
but hung up instead
because I could not remember to whom,
but did remember I wanted to finish
the wheat flakes I started eating
in the plastic storage bag,
while I pulled out a sheet of paper
to make a list of the things I would need
for travel to Chicago next week,
but could not find a pen;

so I took off my shoes in private and
wiggled my toes free the way that makes
my husband frantic for love
and brings him to completion
as he watches me shiver violently,
massive little deaths of pleasure
and it occurred to me at that moment
to send an e-mail at 9:03 a.m.
to thank him for leaving a gardenia
on the kitchen table that morning,
trying to make-up for the fight
we had the weekend before;

or that I drank too much water
out of a blue plastic cup and it made me
want to tinkle but I felt too lazy to get up,
so I squirmed in my seat and looked
at the stack of cases on my desk,
while trying to determine the reason
for the commotion in the common area.

I should never confess
that it took me two days
to really wonder about them
lying penned between it all,
buried beneath the rubble
and fractured parts of the collapse.
I wondered if they now dream in
pastel colors; if they see ribbons
against a brilliant blue sky
or through green shallow seas
colored fish streaming between long
and crooked rocks blowing
tender kisses into their faces.

Do they hear parrots caw
at long tailed monkeys or crickets creeping
in a lush dark jungle;
or smell the fleshy leaf from the orchid
bearing the sweet dense aroma of vanilla bean;
or caress the thick film of fresh air
before breathing again?

Do they speculate about their brief
incarceration inside small spaces
forced somewhere in between
the edge of the world and an elevation
of existence with no color
inside clouds of raining charcoal,
the thunder of the inferno,
the stench of fear?

Would they chose again between
a burning or a crushing death,
valiant or waiting, a falling
or a clinging death, a raging death
or a going that is passive and serene?
Would they replay the last moments
in their lives over and over
to see if they could have chosen
a better way to die?

I should never confide
in anyone that I worry
whether the survivors will taste
the fumes of molten steel
deep in their throats swallow
leather skins of charred beings
until it sticks to their breast bones
and mash between their teeth
the graves of the fallen,
from this day forward. 

How long will it take them to decide
whether they should crush the hearts
they hold heavy in their hands
or fold them neat into flat squares
to be used later in another life?

Will the rescue workers
try to piece together the severed hand
with mangled parts of bodies
to make someone complete again,
and deliver anyone alive to a family
to soothe the void?

Will their minds find sanctuary
bent by the nucleus that conceals
carnage beneath the pillars,
or ever search for a people lost
in the river of tears
draining through soot, destroyed,
or silence the shrieks of smoldered phantoms
climbing up from the tomb at earth’s core?

Will any of them release a laugh or pray again
after they inter the last tooth
in a casket below the ground
or will they continue to explore
the universe for their own souls
granulated in the tiniest pieces
underneath our flag?

            Epilogue           
I should never divulge
in the week that followed
I exhaled twice, broken and afraid—
to think of the children,
to lace up my combat boots,
make that list to go to Chicago,
and change the date on my calendar,
until I figured out that damn Far Side cartoon.