Baghdad
Her bridges are in school textbooks,
Her dead are numbers in the papers.
Every tourist wears black.
In a dream, I visited her once too;
I saw a friend drinking his tears
In a tea-cup, and he smiled.
I saw a crow that covered the clouds
with its wings and I saw a graveyard
in the garden of Maydan. So where
are the poets, and the photographs, Fairuz?
This is Tigris sleeping on a stretcher,
Besieged by soldiers and wishes.
And when I crossed the bridge to Rusaffa,
The search point spat in face.
I was woken by a shot to the head.
Copyright © Ali Habash | Year Posted 2015
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