In a year, there is silence
at Ground Zero.
All the body parts
have been mailed back -
but not enough for everyone.
Someone is just a stain,
a gout of corruption on a tire tread
driven ankle deep in ash that day
over lumps that were the dead.
“He knows where the bodies are buried”
is forevermore an obscene joke; and if
Bin Laden doesn’t know the punchline,
how can we?
Someone I love is just a mote
on a migrating updraught in Spain.
(Second Prize, Bay Area Poets Annual Contest 2012, Category: Spaces & Places)
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Dragonfly
PoetryWelcome to the Dragonfly collection by Deborah Fruchey. Here, the stars are savage things, toes are like crickets, and a friend is a lost wedding ring. These 10 evocative poems come from a larger work, Armadillo, available in print at http://amzn.t...
