by Sandy Hiss
Eleventh Postcard from Iraq
The temperature here
is feverish
but I am not ill.
My t-shirt sticks to
my culturally shocked skin.
Asking "Why did you come here?"
I don't have the answers.
Too busy fanning myself
with my own questions
while beads of sweat
attempt to create a necklace
around my aching neck.
They could be pearls
but the sun over Iraq
won't convince me this soon.
We have six months
to become acquainted.
Twelfth Postcard from Iraq
The loud speaker declares
"Attention in the embassy complex.
Do not be alarmed. The loud
explosion was in the Red Zone."
I turn up the volume on the radio.
Thankful it is quiet here
in the Green Zone. My ears
deaf to the screams
of widows and children
living just a mile away.
Their voices a memory
like those of the now deceased.
Fifteenth Postcard from Iraq
I was a guest
at the opening of Al-Salam
(Peace) soccer field.
The fertile grass exhaled
beneath the weight
of thick grey clouds. Helos
punctured their bellies to let
animosity roam. The green
and white striped shirts
battled the orange shirts
while little Iraqi boys fought
over shiny new soccer balls.
There were no Iraqi girls
to be found. Did they not
get the memo?
Sandy Hiss' poetry has been published in over 60 print and electronic journals. Her first book of poetry, Ever Violet, was released in April 2007 by D-N Publishing. She is also the editor of Flutter, an online poetry journal.
