A Poem for Independence Day

Dispatch from Tikrit

Now that you're
gone,
our connection
is reduced
to paper,
entrusted to
strangers.
Cuneiform
without clay
tablet.
I unwrap each
letter
as if it were
the flag
of some rebel
organization.
I imagine you
do the same.
Sifting for clues,
a pencil finger-
print or gunpowder?
Sweat
or Tigris water?
In the folds
I find a grain
of sand.
6000 miles
and eleven time
zones wedged
between us.
Our relationship
filters
through with-
out dimension,
a modern
archeology.