Ten Days

On September 11th, 2001, our writing teachers hid the television from us and placed paper in front of us.  Poetry, they said, has a special place in tragedy.  I never quite gathered why, but it seems to me that sadness is easier to swallow in smaller pieces, easier to process when lines break the way our voices do, the way our hearts do, the way dawns do every day after.

These last ten days or so haven't been the best--physically, romantically, or politically--and while they in no way compare to the events of that day fifteen years ago, the feelings aren't all that different: fear, sadness, uncertainty, and a hope that there's hope.


Misgiving

He'd said he wasn't sure,
And I'd shivered on the porch, grasped at his words, told myself:
Tomorrow, I'll feel stronger.

Last Thursday, he came, we talked, he went,
And Friday, I asked why he wasn't content.
He'd said he wasn't sure.

Last Saturday, I cried as my ankle rolled,
And Sunday, he'd laughed, and I saw gold.
But tomorrow, I'll feel stronger.

Monday, I considered and shared all my thoughts,
And Tuesday, rain fell, and pundits took their shots.
He'd said he wasn't sure.

Wednesday, I awoke to a fever of fear,
And Thursday, I nearly forgot because he'd called me dear,
But tomorrow, I'll feel stronger.

Friday, I weighed my heart, choosing--
On Saturday--a path that felt less like losing.
He'd said he wasn't sure.
But one day, I hope, he'll feel stronger.