Christopher Bock

In the West

"BAGHDAD, Feb. 27 (2003)--A revival of the classic "Epic of Gilgamesh" is scheduled to open in about two weeks at the Rashid Theater in downtown Baghdad."
--Neil MacFarquhar; The New York Times

I am afraid to untie the rope,
The ends frayed the noose triple-knotted.
Last spring we slept in fields of Orchid,
Now we swim in rivers of tar.

Sparrows nest outside our window,
They conquer the sky but disappear behind goldenrod.
Once we were like them, careless of suffering,
Cautious of molten tar.

Her arms grasped tight a shell,
The grit of the surface made smooth by the ebb
By the flow, by the stride of the cautious sea.
The wine is poured. It tastes like tar.

I am nothing like the stars,
I am not named for classical deities,
My sins belong to me. They are mine
To atone for. Holy communion of tar.

That morning we opened the door,
Crossed the threshold, too careful at first,
Noticed the burst and the bloom of chrysanthemum
In a basket of tar.

And then you said to him:
"I want to build a bench right here, a cut of rock
jammed into the ground where the children can watch"
Ash from cigarette. Tar.

Self-consciousness is a curse,
Ignorance like lilacs. We yearn to bask in
violet, to be released from cages of the word,
but we fail, we are tar.