Looking out their upper floor windows
for a moment
they saw the pilot's face
before the intersection
of plane
and tower
I cannot stop thinking
what did he look like
that face bound to death
committed to what I know only as absence

I read the Times' portraits like a yearbook
looking for high school acquaintances (finding some)
looking for my mid-life self in a fuzzy photo—
partners, children, passions abandoned—
imagining how mine would read
had my tower been shattered
had I been a woman at the window

In my adopted heartland town
I run at dawn beside the tracks
always startling when I hear the whistle
more like a roar in the heart
for boys have thrown themselves
before the train
midnights while we slept
How did their faces appear
at that moment
before the intersection
of train
and temple?

The Times' profiles mesmerize
more like litanies than obituaries
they entreat me to bear witness
to a man who Sundays sang
three masses at Sacred Heart
a woman who evenings taught
immigrants language arts
the Grazioso brothers from my hometown
who had reached at last
across the river
to the towers

I read about loss
until I must fold the paper tight
place it in my hearth
watch it smoke, then flame
And all I know from my reading
—to be alive is to love
This manuscript of humanness
is engraved with love—
for each other
for the things of this world

And those bent on death
they must seek an elusive partner
a promise of love unearthly
free flight ecstasy
in the intersection
of self
and the void

My small town reeled
in the mornings
each time the train stopped
short of the station
Denial and guilt
consumed with our coffee
someone's son brought himself down

Now, the world is my town
and we are at war
geopolitics will not be denied
But first I must understand
what their faces looked like, what they saw
what the next will see
in that disavowal
of one's humanity
I want to believe the look on his face
explains it all

copyright 2001 Marianne Taylor
All Rights Reserved