Body #19
They called me body #19
when I laid under the half-door
of this half-block,
depleted of what existed above.
Nineteen, an odd, uneven,
unsure number. I observe
a deleted city, uneven in its skyline,
like a mouth without its biggest teeth
to help swallow its food.
It coughs and begs for someone
to help it, with a flailing tongue.
It is one of many mouths.
A number identified me…
not my hair, or my skin colour.
I would be counted amongst 20.
This I did not know until weeks later,
when wild newscasters counted
the remaining bodies like stars
on their fingers.
To count 20 stars
in a Manhattan sky would be rare.
But bodies? What was rarer?
A waking moment: atop smoky glass
and blood burned atop wooden desks,
with loose elevator buttons,
I counted the people surrounding
the rubble. They amassed to more stars
than I would ever count,
even on a clear night.
Learn more
Read more about Palmer and her poetry and short story collection in the May/June issue of Portfolio Magazine. You can also find her book at the Vero Beach Book Center and in bookstores across the U.S. and U.K.
Written by Palmer Smith