Lunch Inside The Green Zone

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Iraqi politicians pack the ballroom.
Roasted chicken on a rice bed,
Brilliant flash of orange,
A starburst of debris,
Pieces of flesh, blood,
Everywhere there is dust.

Covered with ashes, dust,
Part of a foot, I am in a room
Of horror. Someone’s blood
Speckles my glasses, I lie on a bed
Of glass, thrown like cardboard debris
From my chair, flames orange.

Sudden silence, eerie light, orange
Filtered by the dust.
My chair covered by debris.
I must escape this room
The bomber chose as his deathbed.
I stare at my hand, blood

Oozes from a wound, my blood.
On the floor a single peeled orange
untouched, I rise, take up my bed,
Mouth and nose fill with dust.
I glance around the dining room
Filled with body parts and debris.

I step around the human wreckage, debris
Covers untouched chicken, my notebook, blood
Spattered. I make my way from this room,
Shoes crunch shattered glass. I follow the orange
Glint of sunlight, footsteps in the dust
Thick as snow. I see a flower bed.

An old man rests on the steps as his bed,
Away from the wreckage and flow of debris,
He writhes in pain, shakes the dust
From his torn clothing, his blood
Drips on the flowers, the orange
Lily. People whisper, weep in the anteroom.

We lie in our beds, safe from the spill of blood.
The heaping debris of this war turns our rage orange.
We shake the dust from our shoes, leave our safe room