September 13, 2001
The kamikaze plane blew off my shoes.
The steel beams up the center all gave way.
The shrapnel hit the cameraman below.
“A few of us remembered Ninety-Three.
We knew to take our purses as we fled.”
We called you from our phones as we went down.
“My legs are broken…I don’t think I’m dead…”
“I made it out. I’m on the Brooklyn Bridge…”
The orange of the explosion made A-1.
A shot of someone diving off, head first.
A live feed, zooming in on body parts.
Some office papers swirling in the soot.
“And Jersey City stinks of burning flesh…”
In Baghdad, there are no skyscrapers left.