Babylon 2003
by Jason Tauches
It’s after noon in Al Hilla, and
I’m in the Bazaar outside the front gate
behind the ruins of the city,
watching the men, in white robes surrounding Paul,
and he’s watching those around me, watching
their hands,
and the sun is high
as we walk up the narrow rows of wood
and cloth stalls through crowds of men who
beckon with smiles exposing rotten
teeth. I have one hand on my holster, the other’s
on my money as kids, just like American
kids but with no shoes,
dart from Marine to soldier saying “Mistah, mistah,”
grabbing our hands and pulling us along.
At a stall near the back
Paul buys a pirated copy
of the “Incredible Hulk” and I get
a CD by Nawal, a roast chicken
and a Coke with their lettering on it.
I pay the asking price, never
haggling with one without shoes. We walk back
along the road, towards
the gate, into the shade of palm trees
that drink from the Euphrates, past the sentry
talking to an Iraqi who’s
leaning on a cane and pulling
his robe up high on one outstretched leg
showing an old gunshot wound that hasn’t healed.
We ignore a few shots off in the distance
because it’s Thursday, Marriage day,
and the waves rise from the pavement even
though it’s late August and the heat has turned.
We pass a crowd gathered in front of a row
of port-a-johns along the road
I glimpse through a gap in the crowd,
through an open door,
to the soldier seated, fully clothed,
slumped over the rifle between his knees,
a spray of red colors the wall behind him.
We walk on in the shade,
passing the ruins of the ancient city:
the lumps of dirt and brick
rising from the cool dark spaces in-between.
