Poem for 9/11

I was moved to write this after reading that people had unfairly accused those who jumped from the Twin Towers of committing suicide. The poem is very raw, but I shall work on it. I just wanted to get down this first draft today, on the tenth anniversary.

                           

TEN SECONDS

From the 100^th floor, that’s all it took. Ten seconds, though they didn't know.

And the body’s acceleration to 200 mph, also unknown.

They just knew, with flames behind and a crumbling tower above,

That they had to leave, jump with no parachute,

Free-fall, and hope. Just hope, and pray.

This was no suicide; they jumped to live, not die.

That jump was their last brave, desperate chance at life.

Certain death behind, they jumped for a miracle,

Hoping perhaps that some kind, loving god

Would reel back evolution and sprout them wings,

Supply a fluffy cloud, or reach out a giant, soft hand

Or spread out mattresses like in the movies.

And that's what I thought it was that day, as I sat in Debenham's cafe.

I recognised the location. I'd been there, on that set. Yet this movie
Was one I'd never seen before. "What film is this?"
I asked the silent crowd around the screen.

A man turned round. "This is no film, it's real, it's happening now."

And then I saw them, first one, then more, falling, flailing, tumbling,
Like punctuation marks in the sky.
A pair were linking hands, floating like butterflies, wingtip to broken wingtip.

No godly hand, no cloud, no mattress. Sobbing, I wondered

What they thought of as they flew. How long did ten seconds seem to them?
An instant, a lifetime, eternity?

They jumped for their children, their parents, their lovers, their friends.

They jumped for life. They filled their lungs with hope, their final breath.

They are tattooed upon the New York air,

Bright icons in the dark smoke of a murderous sky.