We’re buying bullets like a blowout sale in Baghdad. We use blood for our currency. I’m missing an arm; you stole my pocketknife. Did the nerves dance like rhythmic cilia while you whittled away? Dangle like long division? Through the scope I saw centuries. Sanctity. Civilians. We are the uninformed fuse of a smart bomb, the tint of Shiite prophecies, of mustard gas, of tarnished Heavens. The sand has stolen our mothers. We choke on our fathers’ pocket watches. We cough up pints of tens and twenties.