Dr. Omed's Poem for Today:
Bringing Bones to the Dead
Gypsies burned in ovens
in Poland and Germany
pull long shadows like heavy sacks
across the desert
caravans of ashes
bringing bones to the dead
in Baghdad.
Soldiers of Napoleon and the Waffen SS
are crossing the steppes
and the Caspian Sea
like polar bears on ice floes
frosted white and still shivering,
bringing bones to the dead
in Baghdad.
Thutmoses and Rameses
meets the King of the Hittites
and Sharru-kin of Akkad
by the shore of the Euphrates
rolling their great stone heads
before them like so many dung beetles
bringing bones to the dead
in Baghdad.
Dervishes spin like tops
around Crusaders
dragging siege engines
from Jerusalem,
ballista, trebuchet, and mangonel
all made of pieces of the true cross
bringing bones to the dead
in Baghdad.
Werner Von Braun and his team
of rocket scientists, yoked like oxen,
pull boxcars full of Rabbis chanting Kaddish.
Josef Mengele comes too,
leading his collection of blue eyed twins,
bringing bones to the dead
in Baghdad.
Men in machines as beautiful, blessed,
and brutal as psalms
fly like angels to Baghdad
and "dash your little ones against the rock"
and "hate them with a perfect hatred"
and don't know bones
about bringing bones to the dead
in Baghdad.
Grandmothers incinerated
on the bonfires lit
by faithful soldiers of Christ,
root workers, and conjure doctors
who died in bondage
ride the precision guided nightmares
into the kill boxes
bringing bones to the dead
in Baghdad.
In shock and awe
our Commander in Chief
has heard the word of the Lord,
and makes no bones
about making his bones
in Baghdad.
But dry bones sing an old song,
a song so old it has no words,
a song older than God,
a song the hags sing
to the newborn
and the dying,
a song that finds the way
to peace,
sleep,
or death.
Dana Pattillo 2003
11:18:18 PM 
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