the Assassins' Gate
displayed a terrible eye
and a commanding presence.
The watchtowers
and concrete blast walls
eyed nervous travelers
coming in and going out to kill
or to be killed with black-smeared faces,
some wearing helmets and others armored vests
or both,
In the first few hours
of our visit,
the atmosphere was physically cool, but
it soon became intolerably hot, particularly
between the hours of ten and six.
In the first few hours
of our visit,
the atmosphere was physically cool, but
it soon became intolerably hot, particularly
between the hours of ten and six.
The fear was hot, too.
During the day, an intense sunlight grew into this vivid,
shimmering yellow ,
which often washed away any sounds of happy life.
Soccer balls still bounced, but they made a heavy thud.
Violence slept on many beds,
out in the streets, near the mosques, or on small beaches south of Basra
where modern tides experienced a steady flood of doubt.
During the day, an intense sunlight grew into this vivid,
shimmering yellow ,
which often washed away any sounds of happy life.
Soccer balls still bounced, but they made a heavy thud.
Laughter was hollow, uncertain, seeking permission
from people far away.
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 aviator glasses,
playing cards and drinking warm American beer.
Dreams of normal life became an intrusion,
as extraordinary happenings felt normal or
nothing would happen at all, also normal.
24 hours were never enough for a single day.
We heard a bearded schoolteacher talk reverently
about his God, while watching a solitary man who was missing
his right arm stare at me as he shuffled past, unsmiling.
The niceties of conventional life largely absent, no one
seemed to know where they were or how to escape.
Frequently, an AK-47 would appear, carried on the wind with dust and
dirt and the call to prayer, oiled, fully-automatic, angry and vengeful.
Nearby, there was an obviously dead Iraqi visible,
fallen flat in the faint shadows of the Baghdad zoo.
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 aviator glasses,
playing cards and drinking warm American beer.
Dreams of normal life became an intrusion,
as extraordinary happenings felt normal or
nothing would happen at all, also normal.
24 hours were never enough for a single day.
We heard a bearded schoolteacher talk reverently
about his God, while watching a solitary man who was missing
his right arm stare at me as he shuffled past, unsmiling.
The niceties of conventional life largely absent, no one
seemed to know where they were or how to escape.
Frequently, an AK-47 would appear, carried on the wind with dust and
dirt and the call to prayer, oiled, fully-automatic, angry and vengeful.
Nearby, there was an obviously dead Iraqi visible,
fallen flat in the faint shadows of the Baghdad zoo.
It was a man, his clothes soiled, matching the dirt on which he sprawled.
Other animals not yet dead
seemed to dream of suicide or living through yet another day.
Other animals not yet dead
seemed to dream of suicide or living through yet another day.
Which was which?
Violence slept on many beds,
out in the streets, near the mosques, or on small beaches south of Basra
where modern tides experienced a steady flood of doubt.
No one wore makeup to be beautiful.
What should we do?
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