The Anniversary

Out of remission, autumn spreads again
all over America, an ominous rash

mapping the oaks, the feverish apples,
as clusters of gray squirrels go awry

somewhere in the branches like tumors
fattening up on fallen fruit. Autumn

has come: the season of hair loss, weight
loss, loss of appetite, insomnia,

headaches, nausea, the season
of mellow frustrations, and failure

to urinate even when rain keeps on
dripping from the intravenous sky,

unable to ease up pain.
Let’s face it: war will never end

however we bombard our bodies
or the terrorist cells of our enemy –

someone survives in the rubble
and staggers to the safe haven of hate

to wait out the winter and pray
for martyrdom, the blossom of death.

The man in the wheelchair spilled
an alphabet
in front of our feet and then asked
for directions: “Which way
to the step show?”
his grimy index all the while
tracing individual letters, smudged ink,
as we followed his cue, spelling out
like a chorus of first-graders, shy
in the beginning, gradually growing
more confident, excited over
the long-forgotten craft of reading less
than words. “Which way to the step show?”
but we didn’t know, how could we
(grad students in English literature
overfed with language)
point out the right direction to the man
in the wheelchair,
who simply wanted to see
people dance.