The Iraq War

Strange piers angle deathward
From Manhattansand....
What are cold naked swallows doing here?

I say, but my throat don't,
Featherless driftwood
Of this Iraq War. Birdskin.

Child flesh embedded in mother skin
The transplanted invasives,
paper thin
Sunday supplements,
mortuary streets,

Before I was nothing,
your head was
Going down and pulling stains
From Damascus unprepared, unfolded,
playgrounds of a wooden
They will be forgiven
after they are

Abu Graib body
unfucked and folded,
served with
maggots and celebration
at a State Dinner every September.
What death fertilizes your
Anniversary impulse this Tuesday?

I am a four-handed
Sybil, a miniature of faith
And DNA that defiles this
Hollow earth.