1.
In Baghdad, winter is written in dust

and bodies. Mortar hums into the night,

buildings stripped and open like mouths, 

empty honeycombs of ash. You stand

in the Dallas airport with a poster counting 

the minutes       the hours       the days

you’ve waited for him to arrive.

2.

Through the camera lens, you watch

him shape his first snowball. His hands

move, god now turning the world

in his palms.  He looks up, smiles, raises 

the snowball—a white flag. Your surprise 

when he falls out of focus and shouts

            I’m hit       I’m hit

3.

Snow melts outside your apartment.

You are alone            haven’t been touched

in days. The flakes saturate 

the darkness in a way you have 

only experienced when a bullet leaves 

a barrel in an evanescent glow, but 

softer now and more suspicious.