We were dying that year,
the year they fell,
and when they fell I felt nothing;
but I heard them hit the ground.
Amazed by her nonchalance
I sat the children down, the sound
of fighter jets outside the window,
to talk about the days events.
I'd spend the next 10 years discovering
how to feel, learning to see beyond
the images and I learned that the box
does more than entertain.
The ones that jumped live with me still.
We live in sprawling suburbias of brick and plaster,
row after row of shells minus love built for profit,
where garbage appears at the curb before morning.
There is no talk behind dark shades, no debate,
no open prairies only flickering light
and life backed into corners.
The swept accumulation of speechless years.
The fighter jets,
they brought me back to life,
stay mostly out of sight,
until one of them collapses
beneath the weight of years,
the others congregate curbside
in the flashing red light
to watch men stretch yellow tape
around a scene that looks familiar
and wonder why they cannot feel;
like the day they fell when I felt nothing.