"Sonnet for Iraq"
Before the rain, without maps, without radar,
I relied on the weathermen’s grasp of the storm,
believed their reports, how the rain would transform
one dry village in the east, heal its sun-charred
scars. No more drought, I thought, a green card
for renewal, and I laid down my mind in a warm
mirage. Far away in the village, rain swarmed
and stung until even the thirsty fell hard
on their knees. Whose dreams were these? I awoke
too late. All the puddles were villagers, drowned
in yellow raincoats, with holes shaped like drops
where their hearts should have been. Desert folk
require sun, and though I called to the clouds—stop,
enough—my heated breath only drove more rain down.
© 2006 Laura Polley
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