The American Occupation of Iraq

Under cover of darkness,
the Assassins' Gate
displayed a terrible eye
and a commanding presence.

The watchtowers
and concrete blast walls
saw nervous travelers
coming in and going out to kill
or to be killed, black-smeared faces
or clean, some wearing helmets and others with hair.

In the first few hours
of my visit,
the atmosphere was physically cool;
it soon became intolerably hot, particularly
between the hours of ten and six.

During the day, an intense sunlight became a vivid,
shimmering yellow
which often washed the streets of happy life.

Soccer balls still bounced, but they made a heavy thud.

During the night, few slept peacefully.

Inside the Green Zone,
along the west bank of the Tigris River,
paper shredders sat ready while
truth and madness
grew fat wearing armored glasses,
playing cards and drinking American beer

Any dream of normal life became an intrusion,
as extraordinary happenings felt normal or
nothing would happen at all.

24 hours were never enough for a single day.

I once heard a bearded schoolteacher talk pointedly
about God while watching a man who was missing
his right arm looking at me as he slumped past, smiling.

The niceties of conventional life largely absent, no one
seemed to know where they were or how to get them.

Out of nowhere an AK-47 appeared, carried on the wind with dust and
dirt and the call to prayer, oiled and semi-automatic.

Nearby, a dead Iraqi was visible
in the shadows of the Baghdad zoo.

Other animals not yet dead
dreamed of suicide or living through yet another day.

Astonishing violence could sleep on many beds,
out in the streets, near the mosques, or on the beaches south of Basra
where modern tides experienced a steady flood of doubt.