Enter the E.R. after the choppers leave;
you’ll see, without requiring to be told,
in forty two beds that writhe and fight to breathe, the new Iraq that’s winnowing out the old.
The girls with the legs blown off were brought from Kut;
the man from Nasirayah’s lost his sight-
I only know because I dressed the wounds;
they’re like familiar lamps against the night.
With each charged, each unrelenting sun,
a land of ruin draws irreparably.
My friend, what have we made, what have we done?
This never was the world we wanted to see.
Frederick Foote, MD