A bell alerts the owner 
that he's entered, eyes sweeping 
the shelves. Easy to jump 
to conclusions about why he's there, 
both tempted and repelled 
by forbidden pleasures and pleasures 
he knows so well. The women's bodies
splayed across slick pages
remind him of the flayed
carcasses of traitors, of butcher stalls 
where racks of meat, displayed
for sale, attract a chorus of flies.

A woman, skin like cinnamon,
hair black as his wife's, a sheen
that could hold the print
of his hand. When his wife's face
slips over the model's like a veil,
he wants to veil her with a burka,
lowers his gaze when the flaunted
body begins to wear
the face of the woman 
his daughter would become 
without a father to protect her.

God is great, the words he holds
under his tongue, sustain him
as he enters the action on a screen,
fits his wife's thighs to the woman
who grips and moans. How can they turn
such intimate moments into scenes
that kill the soul as they inflame
the senses? Sometimes he cannot abide 
her silence when he works 
his way into her body, or strikes 
her when she has obeyed 
too slowly, though her dance 
like falling water washes over 
him now, when he must not
wish for dancing or love songs
seductive as poppies.

	His gaze falls
on a high-heeled sandal, straps
like bindings, the punishing arch
that curves the woman's foot
for his desire. He wants to slip
his fingers between the leather sole
and her skin, touch the scarlet nails
with his tongue. If only he could litter
the streets with these demon shoes,
see women running barefoot,
their soles flashing.

Above all, there must be an Afghan face on this war. 
	Sec. of Defense Robert Gates

The interpreter's words are steel.
The villager's face is wood,
his eyes obsidian. This is the face
he has practiced for years,
for any questioner.
This is the face forgetting
how to laugh.

The interpreter takes a break,
washes his face and stares 
in the mirror. What face of the war
stares back?

The policeman wishes he wore
a helmet with only slits for eyes.
His face is one everyone 
remembers, will remember
long after the foreigners
have left.

The women's faces are masked
except for the eyes, the eyebrows,
which still can betray 
a smile. And so they lower
their gaze when addressed.
Might there be a way 
to put their faces, veiled 
as they are, on this war?

The Marines try to fade
into the background, let
the natives do the talking.
Later, they'll critique
the Afghan officer who let the car
pass through this checkpoint.
But for now their faces are masks.