The other, less lovely lights:
blue, pulsing lightning that shines
with Longwood’s resident thunder: sirens.
Every night, their cries,
their lights, slide
past our windows.
Far from our Oral Physiology notes,
dates with Linda Costanzo,
so nightly we never noticed
anymore, Brigham- or BI-bound,
background noise we grew to ignore–
it really slipped from our minds
Today there are too many sirens.
Today we Twitter-read, even if we don’t really tweet;
we Like a little more aggressively
every status that says Safe. Every way
people think to say “Pray
for Boston,” all the thoughts
of all the world fixed
on 02116–our lips maybe slip into a smile.
That people whose extra mile
is toward and not away from trial,
that we get to live alongside
such lights, whose tired blood is yet quick
to give to others, that we can count our number
and find all present–and pray
for the subjects of these sirens,
these bittersweet sirens.
Gratitude and grief.