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A Terrorist
by Earl Coleman

We have seen this soldier in the Times, fifteen,
sixteen, empty-eyed, all signs of jihad, intifada,
rage erased by guarantees of Paradise to come,
despite his bloody bayonet, garotte, the hand grenade
behind his belt, the anti-personnel device he carries
in his shopping bag, the string-tied package
in the pocket of his jacket, sizes big on him.
He smokes a Marlboro, but he’s smoked dope.
Perhaps he is a virgin yet, in readiness for Yal,
the girl-child chosen for him in some ritual
of families, or else the thousand houris
waiting for him up above if he should chance to die.

What can we make of him without a skateboard,
crew-cut, T-shirt, baggy pants? That he is truly
holier than John, the kid across the street?
That holiness is next to God, as he will be?
That he believes in something worth the dying for,
while John anticipates the dusk, convinced
that Susie will put out tonight,
and maybe Dad will let him use the car?