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Fall 2005







9/11 - 10/7/2001
Joseph Hutchison

Shocked and awed, we held our tongues.
Sentinel jets roamed our skyways, the faint
bellow of their engines unsettling - as if
some stranger whispered to a child,

I'll protect you. Now their bomb bay
doors scrape open in foreign skies,
and what's been made from our silence
dives toward lives we can almost imagine-

not ours, but like enough. And we ache,
suddenly, for those huddled under the blasts,
punished by our famous skill with physics
and public relations. Surely some secret

is trying to make itself heard! It bristles
in our sleep like deep space chatter.
What can it mean (if it means at all) -
this alien cry that's traveled so far? Well,

maybe we'd rather not know. Maybe
we'll have to let go of our fear
before we can listen, before we can shout
the truth about what's being done in our name.