Fadi

When he laughs,

I fall in love all over again.

When he laughs,

I see fangs.

So I close my eyes.

- - - - -

When I read my books at night,

sometimes I place my hand

over his heart and tell myself

that as long as it beats,

there is a good man in him

somewhere, waiting to be saved.

There is, I say with false conviction,

there is.

Last week, as I was on the roof gardening,

he returned home after many days' absence.

Before I could turn around to begin

climbing down the ladder,

he was already standing in front of me.

The stains of every blood type known to man

decorated his clothes, and

the smell of him at that moment was

more intoxicating than anything I had ever

put in my veins -

dirt, defiance, and death.

He said nothing but held out his right hand,

closed, then opened it to

reveal a small wooden horse.

For you, he said.

It's so beautiful, I whispered,

cradling it gently in my palm

and marveling at its painted white coat.

I suddenly felt guilt - I didn't know why I ever

thought badly of him.

As we walked back to the ladder,

back to our life together again,

I asked, smiling,

Where did you get it?

I don't know what I expected, honestly.

He stopped and turned me around to face the

old village at the foot of the mountain

many miles away, and pointed.

In the fading light of an Iraqi sunset,

black-grey plumes of thick smoke and rubble

were all that remained.

- - - - -

Now, when I look at that horse sitting on

one of my shelves,

I can hear

nearby - 

laughing,

laughing,

laughing,

and in the distance -

screaming,

screaming,

screaming.