plaster pieces from ceilings
as snow
drifting now turning falling
makes a carpet under my crunching boot
he is here
in a room upstairs
his ululating children beg
for his life
but no one here speaks their ancient language
we take the swollen wood stairs to the cramped
up
and he IS there, frozen in his terror
looking at us owned
and we have a sack for his head
to make his shame more tasty
Iraqi child holding spent shells
on the way out
I see a small trinket -
a toy, really
a carved shoe, like alladin's little foot
and I take it
because
I
want
it.
You go to war with what you have
you come back with more.
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