Two days after the news
of Muntazer al-Zaidi throwing his shoes
at the American President,
they came to my country,
flocks of reporters,
they came to my country of empty shoes,
they did not stop at my door
though I have painted it blue
and lined up the shoes of the dead,
shoes of my neighbor
shoes of the tea vendor
shoes of the bread maker
shoes of my little girl
my oldest boy’s shoes
my husband’s shoes,
they marched past me
their cameras shunned
my stricken face,
my skin the color of grief’s ashes,
I wanted to call to them,
come here, to the ruins
of my blue threshold
put your American feet
into the shoes of the dead
lined up outside my door
waiting on the curb for
something to change.
Muntazer al-Zaidi, you shouted,
the American President is a dog,
insulted him with your good shoes,
said it was for the orphans, the children, the widows.
I am told he made light of it,
said it didn’t bother him, noted for all the world
it was a size ten shoe.
You my son, had your shoes in your hands,
the American President has blood on his.
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