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 lived.
-
Author:
Charon\'s Avatar (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 4th, 2019 10:16
- Comment from author about the poem: I wrote this after spending a day escorting wounded families who lost a loved one into the twisted, burning maw of the remainder of the World Trade Center in lower Manhattan just weeks after the attack. While I was there organizing volunteer disaster mental health services, I was also working with those who were either caught in the attack or lost a family member there. This piece popped out of my fingertips onto my computer in minutes. I'd love any feedback as I intend to publish a version of this and this is the first I've seen this piece in 18 years.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 24
Offline)
Comments3
Thanks. Can you see anywhere that I might pare down he language to make the admittedly rageful imagery pop?
Rereading this brings a flood of sad and enrage tears. I can still feel my murderous intent. I want them quailing as I hurtle down the night sky.
I want them to feel what my fellow New Yorkers felt watching the despaired leap to their deaths hand in hand to avoid 2000 degree flames. God, after all those months working with the demoralized, the defeated, the sad and broken families whose love ones went up in a cry of flame and smoke, and after all these years I can still cry, but oh, god, how I wish I could have gotten my old hands on them for a few seconds. For a few seconds...just a few.
Revenge is not a dish best served cold. No, best served hot, so very, very hot.
Well, isn't that the point? God's been dethroned from his supernatural throne.
Try Alfred North Whitehead or Charles Hartshorne and even better, Harry Nelson Wieman.
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