i. cartography

revolutions
fly east, a
21st century
trans-saharan
trade, where
the desert
grit-wind
blows. the sahara
kicks sandstorms,
brief, wavering
oases, gashes
into the skin
of your people.

brega falls.
the westerners
arrive in time
for benghazi,
and your land
bends subject
to sanded annals
of hindsight
battle jargon.
routed. ras anuf, lost.
two killed, five wounded,
one missing.

ii. ajdabiya

a boy
spray-paints
viva la libye
under the overpass.
you crunch
over bottles
and brown grass,
wait. he turns,
the rebel flag
tied around
his head:
red, black,
true green.
grab a gun,
you say.
a fighter plane
roars overhead.
his eyes
are dark
and young.
grab a gun,
or go home.

he fancies himself
a revolutionary;
you fancy him
stupid. and thank
allah, you think,
as he hesitates
before flipping
over the fence,
he is afraid.

iii. the government channel

everything is okay.
flash green.
fine, okay,
everything
in its place. the
newscaster's eyes
run black. flash
green. flash green.

iv. great socialist people's libyan arab jamahiriya

he would
have you
as terrorists
in your own
country. his
spokesman, mid-speech,
pauses. he sweats.

they say
these bullets
touch humans
for the first
time. five inches
in your brother's
leg. flash green.

v. the news

"even his mother
could not spell
his name,"
she mutters,
rolling her eyes.
you mess
your daughter's
hair. short moment
of laughter.

vi. the parisian summit

his son, they say,
and raise
their eyebrows,
sip water,
pass copies
of his letter
to a foreign
president. the
lady american
mutters something
about the republicans
loving this. the
africans peacekeep
on their own
continent; they
roll tanks
and order lunch.

vii. the road

in egypt,
they vote
on their next
coup. your
brother, back
from medical
school, teaches
the younger boys
how to roll
cigarettes
in the bed
of the truck.
you snort
and stop
at the gas station,
come out
with a pack
hitting your palm.
I buy quality,
you say, grinning;
your brother
scowls. you
tell the boys
to watch
his leg
and themselves.
you rumble
into tripoli, and
a few of you
return. the desert
blows around
your feet.

viii. ghibli

and you
will know us
by the wind
that dries
our blood
and carries
our names.