My husband Amir tells me, “better

to have a tall man,” as he gets riz

from the cupboard’s top shelf.

His Kalashnikov’s under the sink.

Bombs rattle the pots and pans.

He rips open the ten-kilo sack.

Who will cook for him tomorrow?

Me, in his arms.

dirt and motor oil stain his shirt.

“How’d that happen?’ “No matter,”

he answers, watching the news

while we eat. Tomorrow, I’ll go

to my mother’s never to return.

For the men my husband’s age,

the streets are tombs.

The fan cuts air like a chopper.

His skin gone numb to wind,

he adjusts his fatigues. The gun

comes out from under the sink.

“Bidak chai?” I say and he says:

“Habibtee. I don’t have time.” I reach

for his beret but it is too far.