HALF AN HOUR BEFORE THE WAR (excerpts) Half an hour before the war . . . In Samarra, the imam stirred weak jasmine tea, nodding to the adamant whorls of the sura— When the sky splits asunder and reddens like a rose or stained leather, which of your Lord's blessings would you deny? While at Baghdad the new bride panted in the blue hotel, kneading this strange pair of shoulders gone slack at last— smeary with henna, lustrous seventeen years old. The airman from New Orleans who would target that roof wasn't thinking of newsmen regretting collateral damage— he was dreaming some Sunday, beignets at the Café du Monde when his daughter had time . . . Cascades of the Tigris collided below the gun turrets, behind the high-rises beside the mosques. Then came jets perforating radar— missiles stenciled with the names of girls— the gasworks going up— the door of fire— Then came the war . . . JOSEPH GASTIGER
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