I can almost forget. Almost, but never.

The impact of the second plane. The plumes of black smoke. The bodies falling through the sunny sky.

The rumble. The towers’ collapse. The enveloping white cloud filled with asbestos and powdery debris.

Later, the candle memorials. The photograph collages of loved ones. The newscaster’s voice breaking up.

And always, always the interminable wait for any new developments.

All sixteen eighteen years ago. On that day, as sunny as today.

North and South Pools

a cracking voice

reads their names

First published in Failed Haiku, Issue 22 (October 1, 2017)

note: this version has been updated for this year.