Rubble

Remember when we,
hand in hand,
walked through waves of people on First Avenue.
The blistering cold froze
our feet.
Whose streets are these?
OURS!
Thinking of green Afghani eyes,
shivering blue women without homes,
cluster bombs and land mines.
And the time we danced our way,
silhouetted by the sunshine,
down to Time Square. We knew kids in Baghdad
had just watched their skies
light on fire.
If you think protests are inconvenient, what must Iraqis think of
500-pound bombs?
Cuz there was some greedy bastard on T.V.
grinning with pride for the latest artillery, along
with the African American in particular,
answering questions in marine uniform.
Don't worry. The oil fields will be left
in tact.
Ramadan came and Ramadan left with
new clothes on Eid, and forced smiles.
We stood shoulder to shoulder, foot to foot,
standing in
silence.
We walked down Chambers St, the breeze carrying
the smell of roasted nuts with us, past the coffee shop that wraps
birthday roses for high school friends and
football players during homecoming, past blocks full of
rubble and loss, to remind us that vengeance HAS to have
limits. But they
forgot.


-Iffat