Surviving

My roommate said,

“this Boston terrorist act

makes me mad.”

I said, yeah.  For sure.

Two hours later,

like a tone-deaf teenager

I got it. 

The sidewalk.  The bodies.  The bombs.

His metal bracelet

with careful etching

I have not yet

attempted to read.

Sometimes the voices that know most

are the ones that fall silent,

surviving

alongside blood and bone and flesh—

old wounds

I mean 

daily wounds 

made raw

alongside the new.

They find themselves in Boston

and elsewhere,

sinking into

sound and smell and voice,

peering into bodies and bone

as if five feet away—

gripping the table,

silent,

needing

to carry someone home.