Conducted Interviews in My Head

by Stephen Earley Jordan, II

Bodies shipped by ferries from Manhattan to Jersey shore. From Jersey shore to Jersey Medical Center; a hospital surrounded by a barbed wire fence, close to JFK Boulevard, I thought to be a prison, is now a morgue. A man by the pier said, “It was horrible.” But I thought that was an understatement. He should have said nothing. I stood, heart-stopping still Afraid that my breath would be my last. Afraid to breathe the black cloud and stagnant Hudson in front of me Drifting toward my Puerto Rican friend, Jesus. Cops shoo-ed us away. No more pictures. No more interviews. No more peace? “It’s a travesty,” the young boy with the blue nike cap stated in disbelief. Did he mean tragedy? Elaborate. But he would not. It’s going to be many, many days before I’m ever going to believe that it is real. Keep dreamin’ Alice and it’ll always be your Wonderland. No napalm canisters to explode prehistoric huts, setting fire to naked children, screaming with anguished faces, resembling exaggerated smiles. Instead, fire was set to the entire country. I just ran Home [He can run, but he can’t hide!] In 1990 a little girl, sweet-spirited, called out, “When’s daddy coming home?” He was home before supper. Now, 21, in college, she calls a similar tune, “I want my daddy to come home.” But he is Home, my sweet, he is Home I don’t think anyone’s going to feel safe again A lot of people are depressed It takes time to heal

Conducted Interviews in My Head by Stephen Earley Jordan, II

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