at nightfall. The wind presses on, curving

over parietal bones, smoothing them

like river stones where no water runs –

grain by grain an entire skull

emerging, its hourglass sockets

staring out at the world once more.

By companies, by battalions, these skeletons

rise slowly from the earth, dressed

in moonlight and shadow, limbs

pointing to the ancient constellations,

the far horizon, cold mountains

to the north. They chart their way

by the fires of nomads, imagining

wives and children grown old

these long years apart, how they will rest

once they return, wordless.

Some years they spend buried in sand.

In others they ask no quarter of the wind,

a counsel of ravens on their collarbones. They follow

trails of jet exhaust, which line the heavens.

They walk toward cities of light.

Madinat Al-Salam

Mother of the world, mistress of nations, heaven on earth, city of peace, dome of Islam

YAKUT AL-HAMAWI

Ash blackened the sky in 1258, blood

ran in the rivers of Dajla and Farat,

the House of Wisdom burned to the ground

and the caliph was trampled to death by horses.

This was ancient Baghdad, July, and hot.

After 50 days of siege and 40 days of plunder

800,000 lay dead in the streets, beheaded

by Mongols, many bodies thrown to the river.

Some hid in wells and sewers.

Later, they rose from the stench

to walk the wailing streets, where wild dogs

slept with tongues panting, bellies swollen.

Downriver, villagers stood at the banks

where bodies drifted past, learning

from water’s deep and rapid transport

how the dead come in constant supply.

And if we could stand among them,

as bodies blacken in flame, plume upward,

smoke flattening against heaven – if we could stand

in the House of Wisdom as the invaders

darken the river with texts and scrolls,

the old stories burning around us,

the very frame itself catching fire –

what would we have to say of loss?

Maybe we’d begin to question the word

beauty, no matter what form it is recorded in –

cuneiform, papyrus, stone.

Stopping the American Infantry Patrol Near the Prophet Yunus Mosque in Mosul, Abu Ali Shows Them the Cloth in His Pocket

Do you see this weathered strip of cloth, the golden threads

of its embroidery – how inconsequential it must appear to you,

only a strip of cloth – but my friends, this silk and cotton dyed black

once draped over the Black Stone; it is from the Kiswah,

and it is only with me now because my father made the long journey

to the Kaaba, to The House of God, and walked the circles

as the angels once circled God’s throne; he kissed

that Black Stone, and ran between the hills, as one must,

before you were even born; his pilgrimage

part of our religion, something I have not yet done,

this war of no help in that, believe me.

When you address me, do not call me Hajji,