By Poem By Chris Embry
A restful night and morning are interrupted by a succession of unanswered phone calls, drawing me from my bed with thoughts of concern for a possible emergency. Mom on the line – “Oh, Chris. They’ve hit the world trade centers with planes. Turn on the T.V. – I’m coming home.” T.V.: power, click – smoke. Smoke and sirens. A replay of the plane banking into the upper levels of World Trade Center One. A stir of horror and a sensation of disbelief. I must be dreaming – no. This is different. My body disappears; but returns with a jolt as images of smoke from the Pentagon infiltrate my grid-locked brain. Mouth – drops. Head sways; tears creep forward from the throng of stunned entities in my mind. The Pentagon! – fortress of security. I worry of invasion, revolution; of looting and murder. The strong arm of our representative legislature has been amputated. I am afraid.
Buildings – tall towers, rising above the heart of American capitalism AFLAME; ejecting bodies and belching smoke like an afflicted dragon. I laugh ironically – the building, though hamstrung, still stands. They tried again, and they failed. They can’t get us, no matter the method. I am proud and a sense of security returns somewhat – a green chute from an otherwise mutilated tree. But the chute, the tree, the ground itself is scorched to ashes as a thousand voices sigh, hands flying out to support as one, then the other building falters – legs cut out – and staggers limply to the forest floor. A jungle of buildings disappears in the ensuing smoke: a psychological fog enshrouding my ideas of Americana. Any question of presidential legitimacy; any criticism of American unilateralism far, distant, and long ago. I am a brother to the ashen zombies shuffling out of the war zone. I am a constituent to the Mayor inspecting the streets. I am a son to the firemen running into Armageddon. I am an American.
Chris Embry is a sophomore.
