After the booms of expanding air, after the hiss and crackle of fire, the whistles of flying debris, after concrete and drywall pieces powder asphalt and flake the dried skin of mothers with babies in arms and of children knelt by the sides of fathers, after the winds stop tossing ash, carrying it from lawn to lawn to street into the gasping mouths of neighbors in cities spotted with rust and burnt black and white, after screams become whimpers, and the shouting of names becomes whispers, after the blind stop seeing flash after flash of white, and the deaf stop the ringing in their ears, after the angry prayers turn to tears, and after I look at the still shining stars and wonder if they could see the way skyscrapers twisted and collapsed, wonder if they could hear the pounding of feet running out of homes, out of buildings, out of smoke and fires, or hear the billion hearts beat in panic, after I wonder if those million-year-old stars might reconsider the birth of earths that would spit us into existence only to have us suffocate in our egos, only to have us choke on our differences, after I shake my head and walk back through a crumbled doorway, back into a roofless house, there will be silence.
by Austin Anderson
