A Public Death
A suicide bomber slammed the Embassy.
Along with his colleagues, B blew up.
Then came the formalities:
in rows of flag-draped coffins.
The President wiping away tears.
I spent days on my hands and knees,
scrubbing the floor again and again.
No need to add water.
Which war was it?
Death was new to me then.
My first time, and full of ceremony,
unlike the deaths that came later.