This poem is part of our spring issue's "Rising Poets of Iraq" dossier, edited by Alana Marie Levinson-LaBrosse.
The river decays under the dictator, Time. Green palm leaves cast their shadows over the abandoned ships. The silver shadow moon illuminates the bronze rust.
I wonder as I look at the river. Does he remember his first corpse? The first man who sank bullet-wounded into his core? I would ask Karoon, if it had ever spoken. I don’t want to be the first to be answered.
River Karoon looked at me, in despair, and moved his lips.
