They hit
in the Seattle dawn—
two strikes.
Sunny morning there.
Here, I don’t remember,
mid-September, maybe sun.

I was a student,
swaddled in reasoning,
placatable.
He was a pipefitter,
chest-deep in trenches.

My kin’s anger, braised.
His kin’s anger, raw.
We lit candles.
They buried guns
for when
they might need them.

We lasted two more months.