Witness 9/11

WITNESS

September 11, 2001

I saw that bird

the bird that follows no known bird

the bird never seen in V formation

the bird that knows no rule but its own

the bird that thinks it is part man

the bird that's a throwback to pterosaurs.

It trembled

in anticipation of its final act

as its wings whooshed from its ancient cave

to fly across vast seas.

And crossing our shore, schemed

to turn an Indian summer day

into a day of mourning.

Its beak a curved scalpel

wings, wide as sky

eclipsed sun and flew where no member

of its species dared.

Nursed on soil of hate

suckled on milk of vengeance

it vowed to lay waste lives of other birds

it blasphemed winged freedom.

Orgasmic dreams of Changing

the World through destroying it

clawed at its heart.

As it neared the towering glass nests of Others

its head grew into a battering ram

wrecking their shelter.

Saw edged teeth shattered walls of windows,

shards stuck in its tongues and eyes

but it cared not for life. Persisted

in molting fiery wing shafts

that wizzed like flaming arrows 

into the towering nests, 

into screaming bodies 

into their young sweet lives.

Thunderous torrents of smoke roiled 

down like ashen waterfalls 

spewing choking gases 

spewing incendiary flowers.

I heard that bird

the bird blinded by the word, humanity 

the bird deaf to Others' ways 

the bird mute to the word love 

the bird without heart so it cannot feel 

but lives only to die

feasting on the lives of young birds 

on those so young, time 

had not yet crossed their brows.

Needing to devour the innocent, 

your daughter, my daughter, 

your son, my son,

our sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers, 

dear friends, neighbors, familiar hearts and faces, 

those who loved life, those who created life, 

those who carried life.

Screams, rising and falling like waves 

pulsed through small fragile bodies 

as nests exploded into steel infernos 

collapsing upon themselves

sealing flaming caves and burning ghats.

The pterosaur, a martyr's sacrifice 

for the Great Bird God,

knew its life in Nirvana would be blessed.

Were not one hundred virgin birds waiting?

—Muriel Harris Weinstein