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David Allen Sullivan Page 2
Sweet Release
I am the
holder of the bucket containing
clear and sweet water from the well. —Saddam Hussein, October 20, 2002, the day of general amnesty for prisoners, just before the U.S. invasion
The day the
prisons
opened all over
Iraq
the eyes of the
dead
rolled back. The
living
massed at the
gates, uncertain
whether to trust
words
they’d waited to
hear
for too long. A
shouting guard
wielded a laptop
high, like a
trophy,
trying to hide
who he’d been.
Ali recognized
his mom by her
walk—
though her face
had been altered
her eyes spoke
softly.
Ragged prisoners
came out with
fists in the air
chanting: With
our blood
we will wash
the streets
to honor
beloved Saddam!
Some even
believed.
Republican
Guard Gunner Ra’ad Obaeid Hussein
When we saw them
come
a long picture
of misery
was drawn up for
us.
We’d hauled our
cannons
to Nasiriyah for
safety,
but the citizens
came forward and
begged
us not to shell
the U.S.
troops from
there. We said,
It is our
duty
to repel the
infidels.
They spat.
“You’re crazy,
your guns are
nothing.
Saddam bit his
thumb at them,
why should we
all die?”
That same day
they launched
missiles and
streets erupted—
dust choked off
breathing,
made it seem
even
the desert was
against us.
All fight had
been crushed
out that
afternoon.
Some people left
to tell them
where our
cannons were.
*
U.S. army men
came out of
their tanks geared up
like
high-powered bugs.
The smallest
soldier,
evidently the
leader,
was tiny, only
a third of a
bite.
He directed them
to pack
explosives in
each
muzzle. “Like
stuffing
sausages,” he
spat. We watched
from a nearby
house.
Then they
scuttled off.
The blast
knocked us flat. Muzzles
had been
flowered back.
I cried. I had
rubbed
a
propane-benzene mixture
into them until
they shone like
medals.
I had cared for
them for years.
They were what I
was.
Poems reprinted
from EVERY SEED A POMEGRANATE
© Copyright, 2014,
David Allen Sullivan. |