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“I have seen what cannot be unseen.”

Confessed the little boy
To a uniformed interrogator
From a small chair
In Iraq,
The boy’s lips dried and crumbled
Around his mouth
Like chalk
Outlining the final place and time
Of his terrible crime.

Dust is glued to his cheeks
From what was his teacher’s
Breath of ISIS rot,
The man’s kiss of death
Planted upon the boy
By stolen Mohammad.

From miles and miles of rubble,
From arms and legs
And removed heads,
From the smell of rape still ripe
In the clogged blood rivers,
From cities where fire, wind and stray dogs
Are hung upside down, stiff and dead,
From a country
Where there are no streets, trees or flowers
Anymore,
Where even water refuses to flow,
Where every name of everything
Has vanished
Forever,
Where all the buildings
Have been returned to Earth
Like cracked boulders
Rolled down hillside avalanches.

From this victory…
The boy is all that remains.

What to do with ruins?

Stand
What is left upright, for the sake of defiance?
Cut out his tongue? Gouge his eyes?
Bring in bulldozers and swipe the city clean?
Kill him now, and get it over with?
Spit on their black flag? Ban it forever.
Burn it down to ashes?
Stare upon the whole thing
With unspeakable awe?
Give the former place money to recover?
Remove his hands and feet and turn him loose?
Dig it up from the root, eat it and shit it?
Forgive it.
Forget it?
Rinse, wash, repeat.
Shine the light of God
Upon its evil face.
Stop the insanity of believing in God?
Call them animals, treat them as such?
Fillet them for an eternity?
Put it behind glass in museums.
Enjoy the victory of owning history.
Give up? Call it too grim.
Determine that he’s a ticking time bomb?
Never speak of it again.
Live in fear.
Let him go?
Have faith.
Stuff him with heavenly feathers?
Give them what they deserve.
Start over.
Realize, you can never start over.

But,
Still.
He’s a boy.
Sitting there.
On that chair.

Trembling,
Within a hand’s reach.

What to do?
What to do.
When not only countries are ruined,
But children,
As well.
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