A poem a day in April from Rutgers English PhD students and friends.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013


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,
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,
to carry someone home.

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