The Common Egret and the Uncommon Mortality of Koi

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Abstract

her mother, father, and 6 year old sister, doused her and the house in kerosene, and you know the rest…I want to be clear: this is not an antiwar drum- nor is it a smear campaign against the good and courageous men and women who serve our country. This poem is for Abeer Qassim Hamza al-Janabi and her family.</i></p><p id="a1ed">A child dies in a war-torn land and my audition for the role as guiltless begins. I gasp and clutch my face in horror. I weep with the mothers and rage with the fathers, and for a few brief moments, join a collective conscience that is at onc

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e multilingual- lips pursed and heads shaking side to side as if our silent chorus of NO will somehow bring back a little girl whose name we can barely pronounce. I stop trying and seek refuge in my garden where dozens of dead fish lay scattered among sycamore leaves. Their eyes are wide and staring, a gaze I follow to a light pole where the lithe and leggy culprit waits. Her tall, white presence seems unfair and for a moment, I sense that she can smell my impotence- that she is laughing at my need to wax manly as I rake up the koi , and move on.</p></article></body>

The Common Egret and the Uncommon Mortality of Koi

On March 12th, 2006, 5 U.S. soldiers entered the home of a 14 year old Iraqi girl and brutally raped her. When they were finished, they murdered her mother, father, and 6 year old sister, doused her and the house in kerosene, and you know the rest…I want to be clear: this is not an antiwar drum- nor is it a smear campaign against the good and courageous men and women who serve our country. This poem is for Abeer Qassim Hamza al-Janabi and her family.

A child dies in a war-torn land and my audition for the role as guiltless begins. I gasp and clutch my face in horror. I weep with the mothers and rage with the fathers, and for a few brief moments, join a collective conscience that is at once multilingual- lips pursed and heads shaking side to side as if our silent chorus of NO will somehow bring back a little girl whose name we can barely pronounce. I stop trying and seek refuge in my garden where dozens of dead fish lay scattered among sycamore leaves. Their eyes are wide and staring, a gaze I follow to a light pole where the lithe and leggy culprit waits. Her tall, white presence seems unfair and for a moment, I sense that she can smell my impotence- that she is laughing at my need to wax manly as I rake up the koi , and move on.