My Friend J. emailed this poem to me this morning. I thought it was beautiful. Get out your tissues.
Poem: "For the Falling Man" by Annie Farnsworth from Bodies of Water, Bodies of Light. © Annie Farnsworth.
For the Falling Man
I see you again and again
tumbling out of the sky,
in your slate-grey suit and pressed white shirt.
At first I thought you were debris
from the explosion, maybe gray plaster wall
or fuselage but then I realized
that people were leaping.
I know who you are, I know
there's more to you than just this image
on the news, this ragdoll plummeting—
I know you were someone's lover, husband,
daddy. Last night you read stories
to your children, tucked them in, then curled into sleep
next to your wife. Perhaps there was small
sleepy talk of the future. Then,
before your morning coffee had cooled
you'd come to this; a choice between fire
or falling.
How feeble these words, billowing
in this aftermath, how ineffectual
this utterance of sorrow. We can see plainly
it's hopeless, even as the words trail from our mouths
—but we can't help ourselves—how I wish
we could trade them for something
that could really have caught you.
1 comment:
Life is so fragile. This year Sept. 11th hit me hard. It knocked me on my ass and sent me to bed. I sobbed and sobbed -more accurately howled. It's just too painful to think about. Too painful to remember. Last year it wasn't as bad, I think, because I made certain not to look too closely. It must have been because it's five years that I was still and took the time to really remember. The flames, the terror, the fear, the three friends who joined hands and jumped together. The man who plunged head-first arms at his side with so much grace. This year I remembered and it ripped my heart out just as it did the day it happened.
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