There is not enough silence in all of Pittsburgh
\nto explain the quiet in that room<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
between the two of you, not the televised silence
\nof a Steelers’ riot on mute; not the stillness<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
of the Duquesne Incline failing to scale
\nMt. Washington and rise above the grime<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
of steel mills. Not the muffled gasps of black boys
\nkicked and dunked by whites while lifeguards<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
look on at the Highland Park pool, summer \u201931.
\nNot the dampened blast of the Lower Hill, razed<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
to pave a parking lot and build the Civic Arena,
\nwith “no social loss” in bulldozing homes<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
of immigrants and blacks. Not the stifled sobs
\nof teen August Wilson fleeing Gladstone<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
when his teacher accuses him of plagiarism.
\nBut Pittsburgh, why bully you, City of Bridges:<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
steely with pride, grappling with all your histories?
\nWhy choose you, and this old horse I ride<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
repeatedly, haphazardly, backwards through time\u2014
\nwhy choose you, when, in any given American<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
town, there is a room inside a room inside a room
\nwhere thought shapes word shapes action\u2014shapes<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
memory, shapes history\u2014where synaptic gaps
\ndeepen, now, into fissures, into canyons.<\/p>\n
1.
\nA canyon of memory floods
\nas the zip line slips: first bike,
\nfirst dance, first kiss. Broken bone.
\nAnd more: first love, wedding cake,
\ntwo kids. Soft spot pulsing
\non each newborn’s crown. And you,
\nin the blur of greenery and river
\nand craggy rock, you release
\nevery spring, pulley, or counterweight
\nthat ever held you back.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
2.
\nSlammed by a PAT bus. Mercy. Swift
\nand painless. Seven angels gasp
\nbut you are unperturbed, descending
\nwith a steaming non-fat chai tea latte
\ninto the counterflow lane from the curb.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
3.
\nOne moment you leap and dance amid
\na snow-topped mountain cap backdrop
\nand the next, without notice, you huddle
\nin bed, doting spouse dropping one perfect
\ntear upon your furrowed brow. Somewhere
\nafar, a sitar twangs and wails. A mysterious
\nvirus. Rare injury. Lightning seizing
\nyour whole and healthy spine
\nwhen you least expect it. No
\nchoreography for grief: an entire troupe
\nof sequined mourners, it seems,
\nwill fail to bring you back.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
4. <\/p>\n 5. <\/p>\n 6. <\/p>\n 7. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" There is not enough silence in all of Pittsburgh \/ to explain the quiet in that room…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":794,"template":"","categories":[9,49,119],"tags":[78,283,284],"class_list":["post-793","article","type-article","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aquifer","category-literary-features","category-poetry","tag-dilruba-ahmed","tag-mortality","tag-racism"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n
\nLegs crossed upon a mat in the dusty outpost
\nyou attain such enlightenment that time slows,
\ngiving you full minutes to regard the smooth
\ncartridge hurtling toward your chest. It makes
\nof the air a gel. A web. A balloon stretched to snap.
\nWelcome to bullet time. You were never so much
\nin<\/em> your life as you were around<\/em> it: observing it,
\nremarking on it. Given this moment of dead time,
\nyou can at last see from every given viewpoint.<\/p>\n
\nOverpriced vintage fountain pen
\npokes through your bag, piercing
\nyour backside. Infection follows
\nand you fall to sepsis, bringing credence
\nto claims that, daily, writing involves risk.<\/p>\n
\nPitch darkness. Silence. Pure emptiness.
\nA familiar voice in the distance.<\/p>\n
\nThe truth is, you don’t see it coming even there
\nin the wrinkled bed for the sixth\u2014or is it seventh?\u2014
\nvisit that season. Your beloved covers a bowl
\nof canned peaches, the only taste, nowadays, that
\nappeals. You want to save it. You plan to eat it
\nlater. You wait for your children to arrive
\nat the bedside as they always do, exhausted
\nand deeply happy to see you still there, still alive,
\nbright-eyed but\u2014they know\u2014shrinking. Your face
\nis fuller now with fluids your kidneys retain
\nwhich helps them forget that your legs, under
\na stack of sheets and blankets, are nearly fleshless.
\nYou know the doctors by name and they, you.
\nYou know which nurses will glide in to usher
\neach dumbstruck family member from the room
\nhours after you’ve passed to the next world,
\nhours they’ve spent sobbing, wondering,
\nand pleading, your chest still rising and falling
\nin rhythm endlessly, it seems, as though
\nthe only barrier between you and them
\nwere the blissful sleep of recovery, a dream
\nof being lifted with love and carried home.<\/p>\n