First Writing Since

FIRST WRITING SINCE Suheir Hammad September 2001 ?. there have been no words. i have not written one word. no poetry in the ashes south ofcanal street. no prose in the refrigerated trucks driving debris and dna. not one word. today is a week, and seven is ofheavens, gods, science, evident out my kitchen window is an abstract reality, sky where once was steel, smoke where once was flesh. fire in the city air and i feared for my sister's life in a way never before, and then, and now, i fear for the rest ofus. first, please god, let it be a mistake, the pilot's heart failed, the plane's engine died. then please god, let it be a nightmare, wake me now. please god, after the second plane, please, don't let it be anyone who looks like my brothers. i do not know how bad a life has to break in order to kill. i have never been so hungry that i willed hunger i have never been so angry as to want to control a gun over a pen. not really. even as a woman, as a Palestinian, as a broken human being. never this broken. more than ever, i believe there is no difference. the most privileged nation, most americans do not know the difference between indians, afghans, Syrians, muslims, sikhs, hindus. more than ever, there is no difference. [Meridians:feminism, race, transnationalism 2002, vol. 2, no. 2, pp. 254-8)©2002 by Wesleyan University Press. All rights reserved. 254 2.thank you korea for kimchi and bibim bob, and corn tea and the genteel smiles ofthe wait staffat wonjo—smiles never revealing the heat ofthe food or how tired they must be working long midtown shifts, thank you korea, for the belly craving that brought me into the city late the night before and diverted my daily train ride into the world trade center. there are plenty ofthank yous in ny right now. thank you for my lazy procrastinating late ass. thank you to the germs that had me call in sick, thank you, my attitude, you had me fired the week before, thank you for the train that never came, the rude nyer who stole my cab going downtown, thank you for the sense my mama gave me to run. thank you for my legs, my eyes, my life. 3.the dead are called lost and their families hold up shaky printouts in front ofus through screens smoked up. we are looking for iris, mother ofthree, please call with any information, we are searching for priti, last seen on the 103rd floor, she was talking to her husband on the phone and the line went, please help us find george, also known as adel. his family is waiting for him with his favorite meal, i am looking for my son, who was delivering coffee, i am looking for my sister girl, she started her job on monday. i am looking for peace, i am looking for mercy, i am looking for evidence ofcompassion, any evidence oflife, i am looking for life. 4.ricardo on the radio said in his accent thick as yuca, "i will feel so much better when the first bombs drop over there, and my friends feel the same way." on my block, a woman was crying in a car parked and stranded in hurt, i offered comfort, extended a hand she did not see before she said, "we're gonna burn them so bad, i swear, so bad." my hand went to my head and my head went to the numbers within it ofthe dead iraqi children, the dead in nicaragua, the dead in rwanda who had to vie with fake sport wrestling for america's attention. SEPTEMBER 11: A FEMINIST ARCHIVE 255 yet when people sent emails saying, this was bound to happen, lets not forget u.s. transgressions, for halfa second i felt resentful, hold up with that, cause i live here, these are my friends and fam, and it could have been me in those buildings, and we're not bad people, do not support america's bullying, can i just have a halfsecond to...