9-11
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Let not the blood on our veins flow
without the mark of the pain
the tears we shed and the sorrow we shared
never will our knees be bent unwillingly
and never will they be bent in front of illegal life bearers.
He walks past the metal
Bench—in Riverside Park—
Covered in fluttering crows,
And through the flour
That never seems to settle—
From the Upper East Side
Bakery— hiding the city in
I forgot the taste of reality
On brick-dusted lips because
I can’t speak the truth.
It’s too hard to say:
This is the poem I wrote when I was 12.
On the day of Nine Eleven
God was crying up in Heaven
He wept for all those who died
He wept for all their innocent lives
