He Probably Didn't Notice My Iraqi Eyebrows

Shortly before last call, I step out

to the beer garden, join

the circles of smokers puffing

up into the January Montana night,

snowy mountains surrounding us.

I bum a Camel from one guy

and after I hand back his light,

his friend starts talking about

killing Arabs.

Blonde kid,

looks like he’s probably

drinking on a fake ID, says,

“I wanna be back there.

I’m only here ‘cause

some brown motherfucker

put a bomb down

and I said

No No No No”—

on the icy ground in the middle of their circle,

he eyes the bomb,

puts his hands down

as if they’ll keep the blast from happening—

“and I got these scars

all up on my wrists

and on my hips.”

He spots me
outside their circle,
listening to him.

Points at me—

“Yeah, just say it to me.”

He moves quickly to me,

confiding.

Whispers,

“Say it to me

one time, brother—

Fuck Afghanistan.”

And I would have said it

right then, no hesitation,

had his friend not grabbed him,

apologized, and

pulled him back inside.