Blood Bridges over Baghdad

Dreaming in the meantime,
she coughs and listens to the radio
that plays in her head.
Lifelines and muses come and go,
and in the television show,
bodies on display for bedtime companions.

I got a phone call from the reaper
wanting business advice.
Spurning the darkness,
I run into the forests and moors
of my homeland,
crickets and faeries
chirping in the distance
as we sing the songs of the whispering trees
at midday on a Thursday in june and july.

Though I heard the church chorus sing
from the bathroom,
I didn’t expect Jesus
to be sitting in the stall
next to mine,
smoking a cigarette,
and weeping for the beauty
that wafts through the vents-
unarmed verses of harmony,
into our veins it plummets,
changing our history.
Yet still, our blood bridges over Baghdad,
sniper eyes in the skies,
rockets raining down on civilians,
for the American dreams and beauty queens.

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