Holiday In Abu Ghraib

Prisoners covered in feces,
their heads thrust into hoods,
in an ugly, cruel catechism,
stretched their arms out like crosses.

Piled on one another, naked
—a lascivious, satanic penance—
mimicking some strangest coupling,
they shaped a human pyramid.

In that old den, Belial,
breathing out his putrid breath,
spread an infernal stench,
stirring up vertigo and rape.

Dead, they were never beautiful;
not one of them like an angel
in the grotesque disarray
of their yellow bodies.
Tragedy does not redeem:
there is no photo, there is no crime;
it is easier to forget them.

Emmanuel Santiago