WEBVTT

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And then, a longish poem made
up of 14 short sections entitled

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"Wrinkles On the
Wind's Forehead."

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The wind is a blind mother,
stumbling over the corpses.

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No shrouds except the clouds,
but the dogs are much faster.

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2.

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The moon is a
graveyard for light.

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The stars, women, wailing.

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3.

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The wind was tired of
carrying the coffins.

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It leaned against the palm tree.

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A satellite inquired,
where to now?

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The silence in the winds
came, murmured Baghdad,

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and the palm tree caught fire.

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4.

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The soldier's fingers
scrape and scrabble

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like question marks or sickles.

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They search the womb of
the wind for weapons.

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Nothing but smoke
and depleted uranium.

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5.

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My heart is a stork perched
on a distant dome in Baghdad.

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Its nest is made of
bones, it's cry of death.

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6.

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This is not the first time myths
wash their face with our blood.

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There they are, looking
into the horizon's mirror

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as they don our bones.

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7.

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Wars elevates tyrants
and historians pants,

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and the wrinkled
smiles on the face

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of a child who will play
during a break between wars.

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8.

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The Euphrates is
a long procession,

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cities padded shoulders,
and palm trees weep.

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9.

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The child plays
in time's garden,

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but war calls upon her
from inside, come on in.

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10.

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The grave is a mirror into which
the child looks and dreams.

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When will I grow up
and be like my father?

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Dead.

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11.

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Tigris and Euphrates are
two strings in death lute,

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and we are but songs
or fingers strumming.

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12.

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For two and a half
wars I've been here

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in this room whose
window is a grave

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that I am afraid of opening.

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There is a mirror on the wall.

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When I stand before
it, my bones laugh

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and I hear death's
fingers tickling the door.

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12.

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I place my ear on the
belly of this moment.

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I hear wailing.

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I put it on another moment.

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I hear the same thing.

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