Basra, 2005

He doesn’t cry about it
anymore. No tears
in years. On occasion, though,
those who know him

see his good arm fly,
fist up, just above his eye.
So far the sun each time
has backed away,

allowing him to walk,
his good arm ready,
through the village
one more time

where he and others
picked off Shia
on a birdless
summer day.

by Donal Mahoney