You are sixteen or sixty-one,
the article will not say,
but you’ve got a gateway to
Heaven or Hell
strapped beneath your robe
and in a few frantic moments,
they’ll flood Kadhimiyah with
the fruits of your labor.
You do this for god or country or revenge:
how sad that your higher purpose
will become a footnote marked by a toll:
thirty-eight in the doorway of a Shiite shrine
and what does that accomplish?
The fireball that tore out your heart
burns in the bellies of your victim’s kin,
and what does that accomplish?
Nothing more than blood.
Nothing less than blood.