by Lucy Tiven
Where were you the first time you found out
someone you slept with was dead? My legs are so long
that everyone expects me to be thin
without driving myself crazy. Hours after
the twin tours collapsed like tired dogs
my mother and I walked home
from 96th street. Terrible, pink smoke rose
over the East River. My tragedy hasn’t happened
yet. My cancer didn’t have the chance
to become cancer. At night, waiting to hear the car pull in
I think up horrible accidents in the road. My dreams
are filled with devastated weathermen, trash cans on fire
and then I wake to the sound of gravel scattering wildly
through the driveway