Originally published in Split This Rock.
for Sinan Antoon born in Baghdad
In the mirror of infinite regress
go back. Go back to Vietnam. To a man
who can spot a trip wire fine as a hair,
thread to explosives, who keeps his body
close to an escape route. Only Dante
can help him find his words. In the infinite
regress of war, start anywhere. Try Rwanda,
Baghdad, the Persian Gulf. Try
Phnom Penh: a man left an eye
in a jungle there. Try Korea. Or a man
shot down over Germany. We welcomed
back the parts of him that survived. Sepulchre
of repeated images. Won’t someone shatter
the pure reflection of glass? Here
comes the poet who sees a mother
weaving a shroud–not Penelope
staving off her suitors for Ulysses’s
eventual return–but a shroud
for another war. A shroud for the dead man
still in her womb. Poet, if I put your words
inside my poem, have we not crossed over
into one another? Escaped the endless
hierarchy of war? Or must we stumble
against the mirror at noon?
From Harmless (Mayapple Press 2010). Used by permission.
