I can honestly say I remember where
I was when that trepidacious day came andflamed the eyes of vulnerable people's pupils,
all across the world, but particular in these so called
United States,
I was 6-years-old in a white button and navy blue jeans,
our uniform in our elementary school,
when Ms. James my first grade teacher stripped us from
our seats and moved us to the carpet,
she rolled out a TV on a rolling stand from the
small isle where our coats hanged and turned it to the
news, where the news spoke of terror, being so little
I didn't know what terror was or what it meant,
because at the time my mind was bent on
Crayola crayons, cookies, and extra large pencils, in a holy
school environment,
on that screen, me and my curious eyed classmates
sat legs folded and watched white dragon-like airplanes
crash into twin edifices like blind kamikazes, it was
two loud veering sounds until they crashed into the ears
of those buildings, making smoke billow, as Americans
wept like willows, because our tree of security hadn't
grown in the ground deep enough to stop this from happening,
to keep those two mechanic white falcons from
crashing into the ears those buildings, killing and cataclysmically
destroying the ceiling of everyone's faces who watched,
trying to block the catastrophe, leaving so many lost of words,
their words at the time were sickened into a land
of oblivion, because their esophaguses was in a knot
so tight, they choked after chanting fear on the streams
of their own saliva, their esophaguses had became
equivalent to a boa's constriction, if not stronger,
they watched, we watched a man in a suit, lost of his
blazer, holding a suitcase jump out the destruction's mouth,
coughing up smoke comprised of cement ashes,
and debris by the masses, as time stood still like dropped
and shattered hourglasses, as those uniformed men and
firefighters showed compassion, putting their lives on
a line thinner than the skins of their teeth,
I can tell that on that day, their teardrops probably
tasted like ethers of arsenic fluid, because they crawled
down the canvases of Caucasian, African, Hispanic,
and Asian faces and dove into the ditches of their lips,
call it the sweet liquefication of sadness and fear,
call it the epiphany for rectification as our country looked
itself in the mirror...and cried,
but if those New Yorkers would have waited a second
after the smoked cleared and sirens stopped wailing, they
would have been able to take a Big Apple bite out
of the site to see halos, roll out the wreckage like lost
huff caps, and transform into angels on ground zero-