The Day After
(November 3, 2004)

Carol Lem

Even as I walk down the wet steps,

past geraniums and sumac, bamboo leaves

glistening with rain drops, the cool

fragrance of mountain air, a morning greeting

I have come to expect while picking up

the paper and taking a quick glance to see

that all is well ---something has changed,

yet nothing has.

Lately, though, I've noticed the Comics

covering up the headlines and I am afraid

to tear away at the sealed plastic

until connecting with a little Rumi, the one

about missing the garden for a small

fig like a dry-rotten garlic.

And to be drawn to what I really love,

as this 13th century mystic teaches, I will play

my flute and let the song of the reed

tell me a different story, for I've been cut

from the reedbed and make only

this crying sound.

Last night talking with my friend while

sipping wine and cooking sausages, she said,

"Maybe we should get back to our books

and not choke on a rotten fruit."

We talked about my neighbor, Mrs. Aguilar,

a regular churchgoer with a new baby

and SUV, who says nothing's the same since

9-11, "They hate us for our freedom."

I see her sometimes driving down the street,

armed with a bumper sticker, "Kill

Terrorists, Not Babies," the flag beating

against the air, a crucifix dangling

from her rearview mirror.

As I move into the next lane, she waves

and smiles, "Don't forget dinner, Saturday."

And I don't nor a Time magazine photograph

showing troopers invading a home, a child

lying on the floor, his limbs blown off.

I don't forget the mother, clasping her Koran,

pleading for the soldiers to leave

only to be pushed away as they searched

for suspects.

As things began to simmer, my friend recited

Rumi's poem,

Today, like every other day, we wake up empty

and frightened. Don't open the door to the study

and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.

Let the beauty we love be what we do.

There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

Later, of course, I will tear the plastic away

to read what's there

though something in the air has changed.