You plead for the life of your husband, Ameen,
father of 4-year-old Nasimah and unborn Badi,
a trained healer, physician perhaps to a terrorist,
as we stroll by the cold autumnal Tidal Basin.
The woollen tassles on your purple boots bob
as we kick through the carpet of tawny leaves,
D.C.'s cherries naked, spring's pink ladies reduced
to twisted, arthritic old men while Mr Jefferson's
domed marble monument, so easy on the eye, reflects
in the Potomac, symbol of our democracy, testament
to the decency of our institutions. And I know
Ameen's life rests in the files at Langley,
his pixilated face displayed on some computer screen
in the shuttered room of a foreign capital of a steel-
bound ally; Ameen shackled in darkness. What can I do?
Ah, I pledge to do what I can, whisper in an ear or two.
Christopher T. George