19 on 9-11

19 ON 9-11-01
Can I indulge myself with these bare hands?
I wish they hadn’t died in the fireballs.
What will become of me?
I'd like to kill them.
I wish I was young again
and strong.
I want to be kilotons of grief
poised in the belly of a black plane.
I want this sleek plane to fly low at night
skimming red dunes,
scarred creek beds,
indifferent mountains.
They won’t see me coming.
Just feel me,
a roar cleaving the air around them.
I want to whistle down
a dark desert sky.
Feel them panic beneath me,
call on an absent god.
I want to ignite the virulent air,
blister eyes,
sear memories.
I will not pray before I become
fire and shrapnel.
I won’t be a martyr.
Sloe-eyed virgins won’t be waiting
in heaven.
I won’t thrill in god‘s glory.
I will become Grief.
I will cry out for them as I broil the riven sky.
I will suck the dust
(stanza continued)

(Maginn, 19, stanza continued)
of sorrow
into my vortex,
scatter radiated ashes
across prairies, seas and valleys.
I will blot out the sun.
I will gather all the grieved,
their tears will flood the earth,
sweep away the last vineyards of hatred.
For all of this I would kill them,
these 19.
What will become of me?
I wish they had