Hanging from the back of a truck
parked by the river, a pixilated map

of North America familiar as my face
in a mirror. I’m struck by its beauty

without borders: country, state,
its arteries of highways, blue water.

Sitting at the window of the health food
store drinking a spicy hot toddy meant

to blast away my cold, my back to the room,
morning’s chilly air seeps under the frame.

In Iran, our bombs obliterate borders,
children, anything that speaks of life.

War, war, child rape. Someone whose name
doesn’t deserve space here says Moral

purpose in war is weakness. One hundred-
fifty schoolgirls murdered by accident.

No one takes the blame, apologizes.
White shrouds lay head-to-head, flower
strewn. Every girl child a cipher.