First Postcard from Iraq

(For Ted)

My heart bends

with every sway

of the date palms,

their fruit bearing

an aphrodisiac

expelled from the heat

of July's breath.

I didn't hear from you

this morning,

only felt the confusion

of an email inbox

overflowing with empty spaces

where your name should be;

like love poems

written in Arabic

I will never read.

Second Postcard from Iraq

I have yet to see

the Tigris River up close.

It lies just beyond

the concrete barriers

to the east.

Once beautiful,

it was a trade route

where spices were bartered for,

fruit was freely given

in exchange for a smile

or a fresh hello.

During my evening stroll

when I'm feeling restless

and thinking of home,

the mystery of its past

gently pulls me in;

the answers buried in mud banks.


Third Postcard from Iraq

The moon above Baghdad

floats lazily atop a veil

of smoky-grey clouds. Pigeons

sitting on the streetlamps

blend in effortlessly,

shaking another day

of black dust

from their feathers.

They have no desire to fly

in any direction

or converse with a stoic moon.

Natives to the dirty sand, 

both have seen the color of death,

both wish they were colorblind.

Fourth Postcard from Iraq

Another night of interrupted

sleep.  Helicopters hover above

my dreams like giant dragonflies

searching for their prey. 

A collision of olive green

on sand colored skin.

The intrusive rumble of their

buzzing echoes throughout my body,

sending shockwaves of fear

that bounce against the walls

and intrude the private spaces

of my mind.  Each room transformed

into a pile of rubble.

Fifth Postcard from Iraq

The heat of worry

burns my skin at times.

Walking along the palace road,

the monotony of perspiration

overcomes me. 

On my desk,

ylang ylang, in a plastic bottle,

is a reprieve from the threat

loitering outside,

waiting to molest me

with breath of the reaper.

Scent of a tropical flower

may camouflage my worries

for a brief time

but the underlying odor of death

follows me like a shadow. 

Sixth Postcard from Iraq

Sometimes, after lunch,

I will stroll by the birdcages.

Witness the rustle of green feathers

and listen to the sweet language

of the multi-colored lovebirds.

I fill the empty spaces

With morsels of poppy bread.

And I wonder if they are happy

surrounded by walls of wire

or if their wings have become lazy.

The view of the sun and sky

fragmented like a jigsaw puzzle

none of us have yet to solve. 

Seventh Postcard from Iraq

An elderly Iraqi poet

named Sabah, gifted me

with his book of poems. 

144 Pages embellished

with Arabic script, half

circles, wandering dots,

and a page dedicated to one

of his granddaughters;

her name the same as mine.

He told me "Here, we read

from right to left." 

I nodded, realizing he had

just answered my question

about our differences.

Eighth Postcard from Iraq

Two rose bushes reside

by the US Embassy pool. 

One abundant with roses,

the other, bare,

revealing its bones

to anyone who passes by.

There is no privacy here.

Stems rooted in coconut husk

colored soil contort themselves

to feel freedom in the

hollow spaces. 

The same places I search for

when I tire of looking

into a dozen strangers' faces,

a sigh the only conversation

between us. 

Ninth Postcard from Iraq

Look carefully at the ground,

Autumn is here

though the weatherman whispers

it is ninety-five degrees

in Baghdad...again.

A bootprint stamped

in the soil,

veins branching out

towards Seattle or Brooklyn.

Resembles an oak leaf

pressed with precision

behind a deep, glass frame.

Its path diverted

the first time it dared

to leave home.

Tenth Postcard from Iraq

In the evenings,

Picasso speaks to me

from the walls. 

I become the blue nude.

My head turned away

from the black landscape,

exposing my back

to the shadows all around

who constantly tap

and shake my shoulders

when all I want to do

is sleep in peace.

Eleventh Postcard from Iraq

The temperature here

is feverish

but I am not ill.

My t-shirt sticks to

my culturally shocked skin.

Asking "Why did you come here?"

I don't have the answers.

Too busy fanning myself

with my own questions

while beads of sweat

attempt to create a necklace

around my aching neck.

They could be pearls

but the sun over Iraq

won't convince me this soon.

We have six months

to become acquainted.

Twelfth Postcard from Iraq

The loud speaker declares

"Attention in the embassy complex.

Do not be alarmed. The loud

explosion was in the Red Zone."

I turn up the volume on the radio.

Thankful it is quiet here

in the Green Zone.  My ears

deaf to the screams

of widows and children

living just a mile away.

Their voices a memory

like those of the now deceased.

Thirteenth Postcard from Iraq  

Here, in this desert prison,

I imagine time as a condemned man.

Ever dragging the chains

that bind his ankles together.

An unnatural bond

affecting the gait of freedom.

Like him, my fingerprint

has been taken and my prisoner number

etched on silver dog tags.

The only thing missing

are the black and white stripes

where camouflage covers

the drama of uncertainty.

Fourteenth Postcard from Iraq

In my left pocket,

classic cherry chapstick,

icebreakers liquid ice,

twenty-five dollars,

a credit card,

and a folded yellow post-it

with my brother's number. 

This is most what I need

to survive the day.

The only things missing,

my daughter's coy laughter,

my son's broad smile,

and my husband's wet kisses.

Fifteenth Postcard from Iraq

I was a guest

at the opening of Al-Salam

(Peace) soccer field. 

The fertile grass exhaled

beneath the weight

of thick grey clouds.  Helos

punctured their bellies to let

animosity roam.  The green

and white striped shirts

battled the orange shirts

while little Iraqi boys fought

over shiny new soccer balls.

There were no Iraqi girls

to be found.  Did they not

get the memo?