The Last Iraq

Each night I sit Iraq on my table
and pinch his ears
until his eyes fill up with tears
of joy.
Another cold winter, crisscrossed by jet fighters.
Soldiers sit on a hillside
waiting for history
to rise from the darkness of Ahwar,
a rifle in his hand
shooting out angels
training for the revolution.
Each night I place my hand on Iraq,
and he slips through my fingers
like soldiers fleeing the front.