Boston 4/15/13

I have never been to Boston,

Though I think all cities

Are the same, in a way:

Filled to the brim,

Overflowing with life

from the tops of scraped skies

To the cracks in black pavement.

 

Death too, lives here:

Gunshots are the snares

Of any city’s trap set–

Car crashes a familiar

Inconvenience,

Like the wine glass you dropped

On a stone floor.

 

Yes, surely many

Were already mourning

This morning,

Before the race,

Before the bombs.

And tomorrow,

The headlines

Will not remember

Their names.

 

But my best friend is a runner,

And we have all felt

The wind on our face

And the knives in our legs

And dreamt of the white line

Between running

And Having Run.

 

And today that line

Went up in smoke,

Went up in hot flames,

Splintered and broke,

Chewed up,

Spat out like a cruel joke

Against Pheidippides.

 

How then, tomorrow,

Can we run again?

How can any foot

Go before another

When God says

“Cain, where is thy brother?”

And the nation looks back and forth

Without an answer?

 

I hope to remember

What I’ve always known

But often forget:

That new grass will grow

On a barren field,

That light shines brightest

In the darkness,

That perfect love

Casts out fear,

And the only thing

We have to fear

Is Fear itself.

 

I have never been to Boston,

But I think, someday,

I will go,

After life has pushed back up

Through the cracks in black pavement,

And say to the city,

 

“Joy to you, we’ve won.”