Throughout “September Suite,” Clifton gives names to the things Americans are grieving in the wake of the attacks. These range from big, abstract concepts (such as America as it once was in “Tuesday 9/11/01”) to specific individuals (firemen in “Thursday 9/13/01”) and the lasting pain of old injustices (treasonous memory in “Friday 9/14/01”). Each poem creates space for mourning behaviors: weeping, singing, praying, and feeling emotions like hate and love. Visually, lines and stanzas are cushioned with lots of white space on the page, either due to short lines, caesuras, or short stanzas. This white space provides breathing room for the reader while honoring the literal absences that come with loss of life. It is both kind and cruel of Clifton to not fill these spaces with flowery words and condolences, instead inviting us to feel them with her.

A plurality of collectives appears in these poems: Americans, African Americans, Arab Americans, Muslim Americans, Arab children, ancient people, and future generations. Collective grief transforms: a persecuted man into a beloved one in “Saturday 9/15/01,” and ordinary Americans call for more blood in “Tuesday 9/12/01.” Clifton takes the reader on a journey through grieving and all of its unpredictable, nonsensical consequences. The structure of this manuscript suggests that the only way out of collective grief is to feel it and hold space.