Fingers
Fingers
They used to translate the war
for a newspaper;
My fingers
Filled with the dead.
They are tasteless in bed.
The fingers that cross
Over the breasts at night
Are the same fingers that pull
A trigger,
Write reports
And open prison gates.
Fingers that left their prints
On a bus near the Zawra Gardens
And on a rusted gun
At the Rashid Barracks
Have filled with snow;
With letters that cannot write from the left.
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