1

Tourist.

The word spits itself out
of its own accord.

I used to get stomach viruses that kept me up all night.
Now I get vocabulary viruses,
brief
violent
vocabulary
viruses.


2

The day the neighbours' house burned down
and took the baby with it
the dog
the cat
the knickknacks and the fingerpaintings

You stood on the sidewalk
in the aftermath
with your new Olympus C-2100 Ultra Zoom
snapping picture
after picture

Focusing too fast

Past the dripping, arthritic furniture
Past the exposed insides of the autopsied walls
Past the melted sneakers
(kicked off carelessly for the last time mere hours ago)

to find a spot far beyond
the chain-link fence at the end of the yard.

Useless photos.

You were inexperienced,
your novice camera overwhelmed.


3

I have declared a war on the insensitive entity that is your steady hand.


4

Remember that day?
It was a crisp
cool
back-to-school
day.

The day the sky fell
I hid with my survivor's guilt in the basement.

You came home from work
and before the sun set
you were already complaining about
the 3-month
the 6-month
the year
the 5-year
anniversary

as though remembering to mourn
at a set time
a set place
was too much trouble for you
like setting your clocks forward in the spring.

You always left them as is
and told me to add an hour in my head

It was less trouble that way.


5

What is the half-life of guilt?
Can I carry your share as well as mine?

I would like to feel the guilt of all survivors on my shoulders alone.

I would like to punish us all for our roll of the dice.

By pure chance we've made it

One year
thirteen hours
twenty-eight minutes
counting up from the end of time.


6

Tonight you mark your territory with politics like urine.
A stinking border I am not allowed to cross.


7

My father
long distance
tells me I'm
"tender-hearted".

I cry because he's right.

Also because
after the fight
I was watching you
walk away
with that slight tilt you have

and I spun
and tried to find something to walk towards.


8

We went to Saint-Andrews-By-The-Sea
ten years or so ago
an eternity.

I still remember
leaving a day early
when we realized at lunch
that we were sitting
in other people's places,

their particular shapes
-- the grooves and contours
left there after years
of same-place-same-time --
making our dining uncomfortable.


9

And you

tourist

that spittable word.

You sit in the lap of someone else's grief
like a child in church on Easter Sunday
squirming uncomfortably in her tights
and waiting for the ceremonies to end.


11.

(September 11, 2002)