Love
Letter from Baghdad
by Gail Barker
Call
me Rabia. I was
named
for the Sufi Saint.
Blood
pumps through the four
chambers
of my heart,
swift
and scarlet with joy or slow
and
bruised black with sorrow.
We
are the same.
This
morning, as I pin up wash
in
my rubbled court yard,
the
long fingers of the sun reach
over
the desert and sting my sleepless
eyes
like dust, like diesel fumes.
There’s
an explosion.
Did
you hear it?
My
neighbor sinks to the ground
in
the folds of her burka,
a
dark flower, rocking and keening,
her
bloodied grandchild in her arms.
The
earth trembles with
the
terrible sound of her grief.
We
are the same.
I
want to share sweet memories
with
you, of date palm and pomegranate,
the
hay fragrance of saffron, the song
of
the nightingale. I invite you
to
share yours with me.
We
are the same.
Come
sister, let’s raise our arms
and
begin. We’ll spin
and
dance like the Sufis.
It
will take as many turns
as
there are stars
to
make this right.
We
do not yet know the steps.
- Gail Barker
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