New York, Afterward

by Marita O'Neill


Even after the rain, even one
month later--dust in the roots,

on the leaves, on the soles of my
shoes. Even a jewelry store emptied

inside for what the people thought
was the next day's business--

looking in from the window,
gray was everywhere--glass counters,

registers, padded seats, carpets
covered but no footprints.

What stories do our bodies know
in the intimate catacombs of our cells ?

Breath to word, word to prayer; ashes to ashes.