Leigh Saavedra
Reborn, Marduk of Babylon


an-Hillah, Iraq, April 2, 2003

1. Ahmed, hiding

Gunsound, bombs, the crash of falling tin,
hissing noises, snakes and bombs.
Donkeys scream in pain.
Bombs and chickens,
dusty feathers singed by fire and wind, a
bomb, another, bomb, another night,
all silent now.
Hide.
From outside the hospital window
near the floor,
a wisp of sound,
a lone songbird.
Fires of hate spared one bird,
killed Ahmed's mother, large
with her unborn other son.
The hospital beds are full.
Wordless, he stares vacantly upward from the floor,
safe from the invaders.
Shhh, songbird, shhh.
Quiet is like hiding,
safe,
an invisible scorpion
beneath the blood on the sand,
hiding, growing,
waiting.


2. Ahmed, dreaming

He will come on a white mare
from the Zagros mountains,
sword glinting golden light, hilt of lapis,
blade smeared of garnet-colored blood.
The gods will rise to dance and
heaven will shake, a rebirth
in the heart of the holy Apsa.
(His mother has told him;
the heavens shook from the dance
when Marduk was created.)
Heroes, heroes, heroes,
dancing in his head, heaven shaking.
A woman from the west brings clean sheets;
a doctor lifts him to a bed.
His mother, full with his unborn brother,
smiles and prays aloud,
to Allah, Ashshur, Sin...
to any god of any age,
to the woman from the west.
A line, small boys wave at the invaders;
their brown teeth grow long as they smile;
a man takes their picture.
They wait for candy.
They wait to grow larger,
waiting.


3. Ahmed, waking

Long ago the Mongols came and died.
Then came the Turks to kill and die.
Invaders come, invaders die,
Babylon endures.
Early, when the bombs fell
on Nasiriya,
his mother told him,
"Go to the Yemeni in Salaheddin,
brother of a bombmaker."
She died beneath the smoking rubbish,
torn with crushed chickens,
a heap upon her unborn son,
a waste of worn clothing, all torn.
Keeper of the words,
he could hear her whisper from heaven:
"Go to the Yemeni in Salaheddin;
he will show you what to do."
You will grow old, Ahmed of an-Hillah.
You will see the world.
In London they will know of Marduk,
will say Ahmed of an-Hillah
is likened to Marduk of Babylon.
You will tell them of your brother.
Heaven shakes,
Marduk awakes.


4. Ahmed, dying

This is how it will happen:
An old man, Ahmed of an-Hillah,
has been to Munich, Tunis,
knows London alleys,
the streets of New York,
a woman of the west.
He has waited centuries,
kissed the woman of the west,
slept between her clean sheets,
watched her rise again to the sky
reaching for God.
And in the night he has whispered in her ear,
"'tis not I who am Marduk."
He draws his knife now and hisses,
"My brother, unborn, the other son,"
remember
Gunsound, bombs, the crash of falling tin,
hissing noises, snakes and bombs.
Donkeys scream in pain.
Bombs and chickens,
dusty feathers singed by fire and wind, a
bomb, another, bomb, another night.
He plunges the knife between her thighs,
and garnet-colored blood runs through the streets,
past vendors of hot dogs and chewing gum and
lovers with no eyes and children without names.
His brother lights the fires of the earth.
And heaven shakes.


© 2006, Poets Against War, all rights reserved