by Steven Croft
(“The Lion of Babylon” mobile version)
April, 2003
Is lonely as a shadow on the moon,
a silent Marine fireteam approaching
in twilight, through palm groves opening
to sunbaked desert ground.
The lead Marine stares at the lion
crouching over a carved man,
symbol of power guarding windswept
ruins and half-rebuilt faux city.
For three millennia invaders have made
this approach: Assyrians, Persians, Ottomans,
now it’s a teenager in desert camo, sandpaper
brush of wind on his face, rifle ready to raise.
He has never heard of the land of Ur,
knows Hammurabi only as a metal band,
but in this moment he sees the signs
the world is older than it is tonight—
Tonight, where their unit waits for daylight
to move on Saddam’s palace rising above them
in the distance. 80 klicks north in Baghdad,
buildings vanish to smoke and rubble,
Those bombs faraway thunder in a place
that rarely has rain. Its stars that were once
omens begin appearing as they walk back
to find some sleep on the ground by dusty vehicles
Or stand guard. In night-vision binos, as if there
were no war tomorrow, they watch camels kneel
in soft quiet under palm trees along the Euphrates.
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An Army combat veteran, Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia. He is the author of New World Poems (Alien Buddha Press, 2020). His Work has appeared in Sky Island Journal, So It Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library, Line of Advance, San Pedro River Review, Poets Reading the News, Gyroscope Review, and other places.
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