It has been twenty years since 9/11. I was—for just another month—nineteen then. More than half my life has been lived in the shadow, not of that grief, but of the war that battened on it, and I cannot see a way out from under it even now. The war can vote now. Could last year. The dead cast shorter shadows than the myth they were made to feed. And so like everything else in this country, they haunt us and it is not my place to mourn them, except that as part of the community of a nation I should have been asked to, and what I was asked was to wave the flag for a nationalistic fantasy instead. I lost no one to the towers, but I am losing someone to the war, and I do not want to see what happens when it is my family's candles against the next war's photo op.
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- 1: Make me a wreck as I come back and spare me as I'm going
- 2: Did you see the closing window? Did you hear the slamming door?
- 3: Keeping time on the kingfisher's climb
- 4: Because brick-braided alleys make steep, sleeping valleys seem level and clear
- 5: Don't look round, but I think we're taking off
- 6: Sing the praise of Alexander, he's no use to me
- 7: The hedges and fields are clothed all around with several sorts of green
- 8: Chinatown, London Underground, you know it all sounds good to me
- 9: Take us roaming in the gloaming, your Ross rifle by your side
- 10: I'm singing out this poem all the way back home
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