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The small kangaroo
pounces
empty pouch shuddering
in maternal rage.
She crosses the path
of an aging child
picks up old letters
gathers in a pit
uncollected mail covered with dust
of centuries.
The mad horse gallops
feverish
hurling limbs
bangs its glorious head
against the locked doors
of an abandoned apartment building.
My blind hands search for
the way out of a dark vicolo
of an American city,
where Jesus walks alone
carrying a sturdy cross
and performs an old trick
for the guests of the Hilton.
I am the mint plant,
healthy, in bloom,
peak of life,
came home last Thursday
from the Farmers' market,
wilted suddenly in the house.
This morning I squat on a desolate stone
in the sunny backyard
stare
in dismay at the tall basil,
the quiet sage, the small rosemary,
the willowy, young oregano,
all keeping company
savoring this September sun.
Sorrowful heap of leaves,
yellow, brown, tangled,
scattered strands
aging, scorned,
I wait for death
alone.
April snow over the tri-state area
winter-storm-advisory in place
check the weather before
driving
nature at war
in the dry Middle Eastern
heat the American soldier coaxes
the Iraqi man from the shadows,
gesture innocent
of his left hand,
hello, come out, come out, let's meet, let's talk,
if it were not for the finger of the right
firm on the trigger
the head cocked
ready.
Slow, arms raised,
he steps outside the white stone home
rough stone of the poor
retrieves back to the soldier's command
call the others out.
Another, maybe the oldest son, a woman--
his wife? and three children, two boys,
a bit older than my own three-year old
who right now plays at Future's Best
in Fort Lee.
Today is pizza and cake
for Nazim's birthday.
Then, the girl.
Not older than ten.
Slender arms hoist
fear so hard
you can cut it,
sobs mute on TV.
These gestures,
silence, terror,
this procession of arms lifted.
All five kneel to the gun.
Obscene prayer.
The Spanish announcer
purses her lips,
esas, las imagines de la guera.
I switch channel,
weep for this daughter,
these children of ours, these Iraqui
children who run
alongside the reporters' cars
and ask
not for candy or toys
not food
but water.
Outside my New Jersey home
flurries on the roof
of the white Subaru,
on the bushes bent from this tired, wet winter,
on the lonely ball on the grass,
melt into cool puddles.
Drive safely.
The storm will wane
by early evening