Untitled #268 / Victory

I cannot concentrate on Calculus. For while my friends are finding derivatives, I dream of a young girl, an angel with a dirty face, her mother raped, her father disappeared into the desert like a dying sandstorm her brother, C-4 explosives strapped to his chest, combusted in the middle of a Baghdad bazaar. But she, oh she, lets not a tear slide from her face to the sandy floor even as strange men barge in, wearing combat boots, wielding rifles and chanting, “victory, victory, victory”