ON THE FIRST DAYS OF WAR —after Simic

ON THE FIRST DAYS OF WAR                                                       

First sweltering day of spring:

Cumulous scribbles place a child in a proverbial meadow

where he toys with cloud camels—he is flying,

sliding down the pale satin body of the sky

until the fist of evening robs him of his plaything.

Soldiers stand at attention in wheat fields

& scarlet poppies glow like drops of blood.

A sandstorm howls across the country

painting everything a hostage yellow.

Later, the green afterglow of SCUD missiles

         will slap that dirty whore of a sky silly.

A stillness descends like a shroud over the city without a moon.

Infinite whispers disturb sleep. Bridle a nightmare.

Artillery hisses overhead, spewing shrapnel into the night.

Debris wheezes and whirls in the sky like lawnmower blades

as indiscriminate death and bitter chordite fills the air.

In Baghdad, the memory of rain falls on deaf ears.

Calligraphy loosened from parchment firestorms the sky

with the widowmakers of lost history. Tears and spit to put it out.

A small scrap of paper with a prayer written on it—

a broken dove flutters beneath the boots of the invading army.

5/14/03