Diary Of A Plague Year

When it came to us
from somewhere else,
we could not acknowledge
that it had been born
among us.  It traveled
to us as prodigal,
not as alien.

Dirt from its boots
got into our food,
lay on our sheets
and scored us as we slept
and made love,
clouded the very water
in our drinks.

We stopped using
our bowels, absorbed
our own waste

in an effort to stop
the spread,
but it spread anyway,

we could smell it
everywhere we went:

concrete
and flesh on fire.  Roses
in Afghan graveyards
and homely Iraqi streets.
Honey in clay jars masking the stink
of money.

The fresh odor of the flag
on the stiff wind, snapping
in our nostrils.