“if you see something, say something” by olivia olsen

the first plane struck when we were

in middle school, and I swore it was

because sixth grade Is never easy—

ridden with snide remarks and smells

like sweaty bodies after gym class, radar

intercepted by social circles and theatre rehearsals

the second plane struck

a few years later: how you hid in dark rooms

and scurried down staircases, an ice machine rumbled

just like whirring flangers pedals from the top

of our steps. I saw, I saw your greasy hair, a grunge phase

stained sweatpants, a head held down facing concrete sidewalks.

the third plane struck

two years ago. you stared down into the grand canyon

its rusted hinges swirling past the horizon

my eyes, hijacked by a little broken bird

of a boy who trotted along winding edges, 

a 110-story drop home to plastic flowers and burning incense.

if I cried an I Love You loud enough to clear each cloud

who kept my heavy head afloat, would it have mended your wings?

it wasn’t until

the south tower collapsed over an upstairs banister at home 

when sunrise peeked through window panes and school day was almost in session. 

my eyes, blinded, matted in rubble 500 miles away. how

how could i have known

to utter a single word during dinner sitting in silence 

as sharp as the knife that cut our easter ham. 

vision blurred by rose colored smog.

the north tower had fallen eleven weeks after the south 

in the land of the rising sun, but sun had been swallowed by smoke.

the world was swallowed in smoke. my eyes, swallowed in smoke.

we flew through a haze so fatal, so deadly it made 

17 years tumble in 102 minutes.

the towers fell

people seem to see

clearly but we always

fail to speak