Sunday, November 17, 2013

Valentine for Baghdad, Unsent

Deep within a grey clay room
Gliding through glass, a woman:
She is dark while I am pale,
her eyes obsidian flame.
Her reflection is a spark
in the mirror of my mind.
I gasp the sting of her breath,
the vibration of her heart.

She rocks to soothe her raw nerves.
I fall into her rhythm.
Her son flutters by her side,
while my son scribbles by mine.
The rose I hold in my hand
Is a gift I would offer
But I forget. The shadow
of Moloch hangs over us.

The mirror shudders in fear
at the evil one's footsteps.
The rose is snatched from my hands,
her blood caresses the floor,
delicate crimson petals.
Her son is a bird pinioned.

The mirror cracks in anguish.
My stomach a shattered shard,
there is no soothing this ache,
only the sighs of angels.
This is no woman's country,
I do not know the way home.


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