The Jumpers

From Notes from September 11, page 19
Petaluma, 2004
ISBN 1-931002-34-7
$5


how finally borne by air not one little bit
how not like men but like rock, anvil, fridges
dashing, done —

the noise they make: nothing. The perch of our not saying
on rooftops watch the white fluttering in the tall towers

and of what they bore of the thing behind that walked in the
     fire
that wanted them, and they from his awful black breath
          all               alone

then: slap like bed against wall, crack of baseball bat
        slide of lock, crick of neck
stump dis-timbered, plops in a lake
              thuds wet as dumpsters
man looking up and he is shattered

by the woman flying to him and him only

firefighters put their hands to ears
they shout stopitstopitstopit
and one, becoming human, crawls under a car



© Christopher Ketcham, 2004

Here's the link to the poem. Such horrific beauty. Like a Goya.