When our hands caress bullets & grenades,or linger on the turrets & luminous wingsof reconnaissance planes, we leave glimpsesof ourselves on the polished hardness.We surrender skin, hair,sweat & fingerprints.The assembly lines hum to our touch,& the grinding wheels record our laments& laughter into the bright metal.I touch your face, your breasts, the flowerholding a world in focus. We give ourselvesto each other, letting the workday slideaway. Afterwards, lying there facing the sky,I touch the crescent-shaped war wound. Yes,the oldest prayer is still in my fingertips.
Ah. Abu Ghraib. Guantanamo. Lord,if the dead could show us where the secret graves arewe'd walk with bowed heads along the Mason-Dixon Linetill we're in a dusty prison yard in Angola or Waycross,or we're near the Perfume River or outside Ramadi. You see,the maps & grids flow together till light equals darkness:an eye, a nose, an ear, a mouth telling a forbidden story,saying. Sir, here's the skin growing over a wound,& this is flesh interrogating a stone.
Welcome back. Just a moment while we sign you in to your Goodreads account.