Six towers rise from the earth,
crystal and square, a seemingly infinite
listing of numbers etched on the glass,
each brief series a person lost.
Mist rises from the grates in each tower,
an enveloping of moisture and sunlight.
I can stand in the center of each,
stretch out my arms, and touch the sides.
Six towers rise from the earth,
a slash of light from a distance,
sparkling under sharp, bright, rays.
A walkway joins the towers, a line
from start to finish. Like a railway or
a concrete walk, both leading to some
final place, a destination
unimagined, torrid and hot,
bare with the calls of humanity,
a trembling. Midway through
my heart is racing, my body drenched
with the mist, my breathing ragged,
and I suddenly feel one with six
million lost souls � gassed,
burned, shot, hung, beaten � the voices
pounding my brain as the words
(sparkling crystals under a blue sky)
reflect the sunlight. I cannot stay
on the path; I find myself
escaping over the grass, bumbling
through the hedge, sharp leaves
and branches snagging my pants.
Once clear, I breathe free.
These people
souls represented by numbers
could never run
from the mist,
from the fear,
from the bright light.
How lucky I am.
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Post Office Box 158
Portsmouth, VA 23705-0158