A police officer, with a grave
and steady stare, approaches
the stunned man. Just then,
a woman, stumbling
and in great pain, screams
into the shrouded air,
“My baby. My baby.”
It is a piercing cry, a dagger jab
driven into the muffled silence.
She struggles between
walking and collapsing,
moving robot-like
toward the billowing
still-standing, still-burning,
still-killing tower.
“My baby’s there,” she cries
to no one, to all. The silent
carpet walkers seem to notice not.
But the police officer angles away,
who still stares at his red legs,
and he strides with purpose
toward the wailing woman.
The policeman moves in front
of the woman. He is a wall,
blocking her path. He gestures,
as if saying, “Lady, lady…
you can’t.” He is trying to help,
but there is no reasoning with her.
Crazed, she claws at him,
she bites at him,
she snarls until finally
he grasps her wrists
and forces her to her knees.
She rests there, her face uplifted,
crying, begging him to allow
her to go. “My baby…”
She howls once more,
a most unearthly scream,
a voice to wake the heavens,
a shout to part the shocked clouds
of dust and damnation.