THE HOLE

I remember your face,

surprised about what was missing,

as we stood at Ground Zero,

looking into Manhattan's new mouth.

The buildings around the block still

draped in sheets like frocked statues.

Rain came lightly around us to fill the desolate gap.

You said, "I love you..."

and I thought, ‘what a strange time to say it,’

but the more I thought

the more it didn't seem strange,

only sudden.

What comes after a moment like that? 

Tragedy made us hungry. 

We went for pizza, then to China Town,

the Ferry back to Jersey,

snapped pictures a skyline

absent two light-studded obelisks.

What should have come, what comes now years after,

is the idea that hatred and love are intimate.

That one rolls into the other.

That they produce each other.

What should I have said to you

to swallow the silence between us?

In that moment,

the city sounds said more

than I could say—

taxis bleated out,

the flags hanging between the buildings snapped,

steps on the pavement were heavy as thunder.

I said nothing back,

and now, somewhere in my mind,

there is a hole,  

deep with regret.

David Harrity is a writer from Kentucky.   He is a graduate of Bellarmine University in Louisville, Kentucky.  Currently he is working toward his MFA in poetry at Spalding University.  His poems have appeared in Ars Interpress (arsint.com), Blood Lotus (bloodlotus.org ), The St. Linus Review, Riverwind, Limestone, The Minnetonka Review, and Kudzu.  His chapbook, Morning and What Has Come Since, is available from Finishing Line Press.  For more infomation, you can visit his blog: davidharrity.blogspot.com.