Whittemore's Smyrna

Entire cities vanish. Cries of the murdered.
No one listens. Disturbing residue
from the past shut out,
avoided, by one bountiful
museum admission.
The all-inclusive
columns. Silver goblets.
Smiles of painted saints.

When I breathed in burned
dead people, after the World Trade
Center fell, I knew the air
would never be the same. Any air. We spoke
of it at the time, my friends
and I, as if we were
buying bread. And Edward Whittemore,

I can no longer
look at monuments,
with any trust
or confidence,
that they might know
my name.

~ Sharon Olinka ~
from The Good City
(copyright, Marsh Hawk Press, 2006)
Visit Sharon's page on the Marsh Hawk Press website