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.