Marvin Bell Poem Post-9/11/01        Eastern Long Island The air has been torn by helicopter blades. The sky tries to heal itself but the rotors keep churning. The late-night disc jockey sits in a hot spot spinning songs. Exhausted gas falls from idling autos parked by the bay. The stocks were up, as they say, "modestly." This is the national news, supported by people like you. I wake up with whoever is talking on the air. I cannot see the rooftops or the basements that pepper their reports. The attics of my neighbors lean with the weight of fading memories. My totems, a polished piece of hematite. A triangle of carved Chinese jade. A medical necklace. The basic moral questions. For example, is a total commitment to the life force demonic? For example, is ethics a luxury of circumstance? For example, how thin is the ice? Dark chocolate, they say, is the better for being bittersweet. Try to see where you are, oppressed by the thumping of the copters. A promise has been made to air an entire season of the mortuary show. A man in a three-piece suit steps on the edge of a shovel to break ground for a community garden. The tall Whalers Church standing stark white surrounds a resonant cavity. You can picture the boats jostling the waves and the whale tail slapping. When the harpoon hits, the exhalation shakes the tide, then the exaltation. When disturbed, the otherwise free-flowing air terrifies, come nor'easters. The disc jockey can't smooth it over when the helicopters come. The parked lovers lose the moment. The words from the front lines return to us chopped up. We could have told one another before this din began. about Marvin Bell