For a long time I kept
a copy of the Metro
just out of casual sight, on my desk.

The cover had a photo of "the feet
of an unidentified victim," peering
out from rubble, or a black plastic bag.

The dirt and ash go without saying,
but the feet still looked clean
or well cared for.

Like perfectly tumbled pebbles
in a Vermont stream, each toe
grinned at me.
I wanted to knead them

between my finger tips, the way you would
to a new lover who had just awoken
for the first time in your bed.

I was living alone then,
with only my morbid attachment
to that image to keep me company.

You told me to write about the war.
I said it was a stupid idea,
that I am not political.

Let us go to bed, so that in the morning
I can watch your sleeping body
and press the sole of your foot
against my damp face in apology.