Prayer Beads

There is no blue swimming pool in Baghdad,
only the muddy pulse
of two rivers.

~

Nobody wants to swim there anymore.
Anymore, anymore.
Children are still laughing in the ruined garden.

~

Pleasure is warped, like the mahogany skin
of a boat trapped in sand, or like a bird’s wing
stripped to the bone.

~

Stains: rust, charcoal, calligrapher’s ink.
Do not forget blood.
Pomegranate, memory.

~

The weapons truck grinds its steel gears
uphill, crushing one silver necklace
of prayer song.

~

It’s really all about fire.
Fire, fire.
Flame.

~

Waiting for rain.
Rain, rain.
Silence.

~

When fire enters wood
a louder breath escapes.
Molecules of heart.

~

Shattered porcelain. Abandoned marble.
Bronze ears tarnished by salt
beneath the inland sea.

~

Your daughter screams from the volcano’s heart.
 A branch snags the soft belly of a wild cat
 who will devour your sons.

~

Do you mourn your lost twin’s cry?
The touch of his skin?
The echo of footsteps?

~

Twelve beads.
One prayer:
Love.