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I can't think of anything but, What would be like if your body burned too
beneath the rubble, with strangers calling out nobody's familiar name?
Sister, what was it like to watch the world end from your office window,
so many people dying to go down on the street?
After the second hit, you ran down the staircase, pushing through billowing
black, the imminent imagined wounded, to get away from the still waking
walking dead.
Sister, why did you have to move to New York, when it is our biggest fear
to be taken away just like that?
It's hard to watch television to find her. I can't get through, wondering
if she will arrive home, so she can sleep tonight, clean herself invisible,
while I lie awake, thinking of those I saw jump ninety stories from the
twins, holding hands, like we would have done.
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