The Alphabet of the Dead: A Meditation Poem for September 11

The Alphabet of the Dead 

  written in 2002, on September 11

And the wind rose to kiss their lips

and the dust rose and whirled around them

and touched their shoulders and brushed

their cheeks. And the wind swirled to stroke

their foreheads and wipe their tears. 

And they walked into the open-air

mausoleum, and the names read

became a poem, and the names became

a chant, and the names became a prayer.

And the dust blew in their eyes and the dust

blew into their mouths and dust blew

onto their tongues and into the crevices of ears

and spoke like no speech could ever speak.

And a circle of honor was set, a ring, in the center

of the open grave, like a hole in the earth,

like a place of resurrection, like an empty circus ring. 

And from a distance, from the view of birds and gods,

a living wreath was formed, surrounding the ring

with those who mourned for those who died.

All the mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters, children

and daughters, sons and cousins, aunts and uncles,

and the couples and strangers, hand and hand, descending.

And there were dogs, and cats, and birds,

the animals, the loyal pets who waited, and waited

and waited and died waiting.

And all the names, all ages, all sexes, all religions,

all strata, from many countries, from many states, from all

boroughs, all people, a family of strangers.

The dust of angels, of unsuspecting soldiers. 

It is painful to listen to the list of names numbing

to listen to the names, necessary

to listen to the list of names. The names become

a poem, the names become a prayer. 

And what have we learned from this

beyond that men can weep out loud in public

and embrace each other in grief and that

race means nothing? Beyond that people will still

talk on cell phones in the street, even while

the alphabet of the dead is read aloud? Beyond

that we must live for today but plan for tomorrow?

In this pit, all the living wear the same face, lips tight

with corners down, squinting between tears.

The living gather earth and dust into plastic bottles

what little they can take home. 

The dust of angels now angels in a bottle, Genies

in bottles, wishes never to come true.  Some pick up

pebbles, perhaps pieces of bone.  Small relics

in this rubble, what little they can take home

along with a list of names.  Music and poems

cradle grief.  And the list goes on, a year later, repeated

surnames with such different faces, scrolling down

my TV screen tells me we are one. That all that is left

is dust tells us we are one.  That we all cringe

with dust in our eyes tells us we are one

on this beach, desert, tightrope, consecrated ground.    

Note: A version of this poem, with music by Steve Worthy, can be found on You Tube. Search The Alphabet of the Dead, 9-11, Mary Crescenzo