After Iraq Sweidan

I’m not sure you’d want what I’ve stolen.

I’m not sure I say your name right.

I forgot about you with my mouthful of cake.

My scales. My husband. My fingertips smelling

of weed. I know you’re in there somewhere.

Should I have poured rose tea instead? Whiskey?

What’s the trine of planets in the sky?

Where can I find your intestines?

Can you believe the apple trees this year?

Pink as slaughter. Perfect for a photo shoot.

Today I cut calories but at night I eat worms.

I won’t say what I paid for this mattress.

You can’t put a price on good sleep.

You can’t put a corpse back together.

One bomb dives into the sky like a rose.

If  I don’t say rose, you’ll skip ahead to the end.

I think I’m in love with the murdered poet.

I think I shouldn’t say that. His voice reminds me

of strawberries, red and sour at the farmer’s market

in Brooklyn this morning, virgin mojitos afterwards.

The physical therapist says my serratus is tight.

The prime minister says that high-rise has bad posture.

Who sweeps the glass? Who rakes the graves

like an itch? The screens will spoil my eyesight.

After all that Lasik. After all that shelling,

a mother walks her child over rubble.

Prays the young will forget.