The Folly of Being Human
You don’t know how it feels,
she deadpans while standing
naked by the window looking out
into a Baghdad
shrouded in a ragged reddish
mourning dress of dust.
I stretch naked on a mattress
half covered by a wrinkled white
sheet sullied by the sweat of our
sexed out bodies.
A long black hair wriggles on the lonely
pillow we shared. The pillow I used
to strut her pelvis as I thrust into her
on and on, holding her by the throat.
The pillow she bit into as I straddled her
pulling her hair as she writhed from
pain and pleasure.
Ever since her husband and son were
killed in front of her,
ever since she was kidnapped
and raped by the killers for days,
she found herself
craving rough sex.
She takes a long drag from her
Menthol cigarette. Her beautiful
breasts heave as the Muezzin’s
call for morning prayer warbles
through streets begrimed by trash,
over a city crumbling from lash after
unrelenting lash of this war,
through the carcasses of
eviscerated souls
refusing to be reincarnated.
She flicks the cigarette through
the window.
She puts her clothes on.
Do I get to see you tonight?
She turns and looks at me.
Then she smiles before she
disappears into the city’s
monotonous violence
as the night slowly ebbs.
Soon the relentless sun
will embrace the swaying
palm fonds as they stand
ready to witness yet
another day in the folly
of being human.
Of course I don’t.
