I see you in the crowd
turned out in this arctic town
to mark the U.S. assault
on Iraq, shouts like gunshot—PEACE! NOW!

Bush lynched in effigy, his—my—flag
on fire—my country—
no longer mine, I have none, no one
not even you
speak my language, my mother tongue mute
after the city I loved fell,
twice-buried beneath towers of dust.

You slip from khaki pockets a pencil stub,
small red notebook. Who are you
to be writing when I didn't even think
to bring a journal?

The throng roils, I am a snagged branch
in a surging flood, then
my husband, carrying one daughter,
whispers, I looked for you,
then saw your tiger-striped hair.

On the brink of invasion,
I have no idea
how the world will change.