Quarter Moon Too often a siren wails and rescuers pause amid the ruins, the smoke and asbestos in the wind. The chaplain summoned, Over here. The diggers remove helmet and mask, and heads bowed in a circle, say a prayer over another torso, an arm, a head, the soul of a nation. For who knows how long this litany will even more be recited, this lingering smoke that singes the earth, death rising over what’s left of the skyline? Holy men will grow hoarse and hearse and horseman’s bearded face shadow the dark. We will speak only of this. Look to the sky with each rumble Of each passing jet, into the eyes of strangers, speak with wonder of the smell that carries death across the river to Brooklyn and The Bronx. In Queens, It is this wind that flaps draped flags outside the mandirs and mosques of Richmond Hills. The Sikh druggist, his head in a turban his fears wrapped in stars And stripes, will burn candles, paste condolences and sentiments on the window, flowers at the pharmacy door. The Arabs at the newsstand Peer warily between centerfolds of the flag pasted on the plexi-glass shield at the counter, say nothing to the regulars who punt the daily Lotto and tease Old man Arafat. Instead, Saddiq and his brothers will write yesterday’s Pick 3, Pick 4 with a crooked scrawl and, like Longfellow’s Arabs, silently steal away. Dawad Philip
Posted on: Wed, 11 Sep 2013 17:51:02 +0000