My City
What if life were long
and eternity short?
In my city innocent people
are killed by a thunderous
terror from above. Vendors
in the street are pummeled
by rubble. Men and women
on their way to work are greeted
with the anonymous hatred
of those they have never met.
Janitors, businessmen, clerks,
cooks, construction workers, the rescue
workers who risk all to help these.
My beloved city showered with death.
We cry up and ask, in the midst
of the screams of loved ones,
why do they hate us so?
Why do they do this to our city,
to our lives?
My stomach turns in on itself.
The people I love, burning, dissolving,
dying. The city I love, attacked
from above. My brothers in agony.
My sisters. Children. Mothers. Dead.
Who would do this?
Why my beautiful city?
How do we survive this
but by breathing the city's name
over and over like a mantra, a prayer?
Baghdad, Baghdad, Baghdad.
—John O'Connor
John O'Connor is a poet and labor organizer who lives in New York City.
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