Underground
Benjamin Buchholz - United States

they set Ishmael on the ground, leaning back, into it,
for minutes it felt in process, the setting, closed in sky

surrounded by the sickened faces of his friends, what did
they see? stealing glances at the black blood, white linen

stained black, looking under it where Haran tucked the last
bit of him haphazardly into—, wait, in process, they’re

gone before he knows it, late morning, hot already, flies
on the blanket, on the corners of his mouth, a cur dog

approaches, ears down, Ishmael waves, I’m halved, dog, go
away, go away, the dog goes, just a few feet, away, digs

in the shade, lays down with his head on the scrapings,
looks at Ishmael, yawns, he’ll wait, watch, when the US

came through three years before, he ate the dead, knew no
difference between the crushed mule or lamb, the crushed

child, the wet smell of blood, half underground in shade
comfortable as survival is, the wire, rusted, the gate bent

around serpentine berms, concrete, one tower blotting sky,
sidewise, leaning, or had he been set askew?, Ishmael

waiting, he tried to pray, couldn’t remember God’s name,
not the simple name, Allah, he knew that, but tongue deep,

remote, the shiver of god in a word, blue, meson, football,
it opened with coughing, fresh blood in bandages, America

come, I believe, I’ve seen the skyscrapers, glass towers,
I’ve crawled into bed with them, frozen my lip to frames

reflecting me, sold carnations to the shoppers, quiet here,
there is no one on the busy corner, they all know, by law

the savior is responsible, a basket of nectarines, a scale
with a leg of lamb wrapped in paper, weighed, the worth

determined and noted, America come, come Sergeant Coleridge,
I’ve opened with coughing, fresh blood bandaged, America.