Iraqi dead, she said. Their names: eleven pages.
For the vigil after war begins.
I study and then ask myself:
which ink? which paper? which hand
might best honor those who died,
by sanctions or unfriendly fire?
A Carolingian, I think,
modified, with clubbed ascenders.
Pen in hand, I settle in.

The names flow through my nib:
Sajeda Rahim Batawi, born 1972.
Amena Mohammed al-Mustafa, student.
Mehmood Mohammed Fiadh, male wage earner.
A turquoise ink draws forth the lives
extinguished, by bombers or by slow privations:
A killer, once again, the flu.

The names begin to whisper, softly.
This one maybe liked green olives.
That one's favorite was figs.
This child made her father sing.
That son's grades were good in school.
This grandma liked her tea with mint.
A turquoise song wells up from where
I trace the marks on blue-flecked strips.

If Bush would wield a pen, not bombs,
and write the names of those who died--
and hear their cries, their loves, their woes--
he might not light up
the night like this, with calligraphic
tracer-fire in a demonic dance
with hell.

20 March, 2003