A poem I wrote after 9/11

Postmortem

Driving north on the interstate,
I could always appreciate
your understated beauty.

But when you died that day-
your last exhalation
one of thick black smoke--
you were intestate.
Your refusal to make a will
was a statement
that you belong to all
and divided you fall.

But a state of confusion
became a state of fear,
then multiple states of panic.

Now they disregard your wishes--
and tell me to step up,
state my case,
and state my relation to the deceased:

She was my country,
The United States of America,
But I don't want any part of her estate;
I want her, alive and whole again.