I don't think I've ever posted this poem; I've never been completely satisfied with it. But I've decided to post it now.
it is September and
I am thinking of snow
the clean of cold
the numbing of ice
and even my mother
is playing at portents
saying,
"Nine-one-one.
The number you call in an emergency
nine-one-one
that's the date it happened"
as I walk by Coney Island's Cyclone
the wind sighs an aria for the dead
at the Aquarium, the penguins seem nervous
in their exposed enclosure
but the beluga whales are serene
within their water world
it is October and
I am dreaming of snow
blurring and blanketing
dotting my city like Seurat
while on a BART train into San Francisco
a mother tells her son and daughter
"And in addition to everything else that's happened
I'm turning forty next week"
things are back to normal in America
when a woman turning forty
is a tragedy
it is November and
I am longing for snow
swirling soft and silent
a plane explodes
I conclude it was mechanical
terrorists want to kill Americans
not citizens of the Dominican Republic
it is December and
I am waiting for snow
but the icicles are electric
and I stare at a pallid sky
faded from the pristine blue
that was the last perfect thing
before September shattered