when i was torn by war
i took a brush
immersed in death
and drew a window
on war's wall
i opened it
searching for
something
But
i saw another war
and a mother
weaving a shroud
for the dead man
still in her womb
-- Sinan Antoon
When you were torn by war
I watched,
My sons safe,
My womb safely
Empty.
The day before you painted windows,
Boarded them against the chaos,
I printed pictures
Of little girls with Barbie dolls
In Baghdad
And gave them to the massage clinic,
The coffee house,
The trout rescue society.
It was the last thing I did
About the war.
The next day the bombs began,
But it was far away.
I curled on my couch
Unqualified for action.
I stayed there for three months
Reading the body counts.
I drank coffee,
Made my children's lunches,
Wrote poems.
Eventually
The war went away.
Until one Sunday
My priest's son,
The one who lived,
Came back from Baghdad,
Kissed the icon of the Theotokos
And made his metania
With a sadness I am afraid to find.
His mother has already made
Her first shroud.
Stay home, I want to beg him,
She can't bear to make another.
Behind the iconostas
My own second son
Swings the incense,
So sober.
Stay, I think.
Stay here, now,
Safe
Behind a wall
Of saints.