dedicated to Ambassador J. Christopher Stevens, Sean Smith, Tyrone Woods, and Glen Anthony Doherty

 

When were you buried by the fog of smoke,

as entangled fire vines grew

up the sides of walls? You were never one

to flee the sound of turmoil, panic-

stricken; you were a tranquil man,
whose brows wriggled and spoke of Arabic,

 

those words they bled in Benghazi, a Libyan Arabic.

It’s said that it was a mixture of smoke

and exhaustion that killed you, the man,

their savior. And as the flames grew     

into a whirlwind of red inferno, panic

pulsed between my sweating fingers. I was the one

 

with the upper hand. I heard the three, two, one

of the first grenades. “Allah Akbar”[1]; the Arabic           

words ruptured all ears of the panicking

Libyans. Nearby, a consulate fumed in smoke.

My tunic was smoldering; the seams grew

cobalt, in a hurry to trap you, that man,

 

between the lips of my snare. You were a man,

confined within a burning building, becoming one

with flames. Leisurely, sparks grew,

circulating your body, those Arabic

words you preached, tumbled out into smoke,  

and diminished at the first sight of panic.

 

Everyone could smell the wisp of panic      

as the diesel fires deteriorated, the man

still caught within the blaze of smoke.

It was me, I say again. I was the one

who watched you melt in that firestorm, abused Arabic

by my tongue, and waited until the uproar grew

 

into an inferno of sparks. You slowly grew

away, lost touch with the earth. The panic

of citizens became despair and my Arabic

chants began to lose their echoes. I was the man

who awaited no return for you, one

of “Libya’s redeemers,” but desired for the smoke

 

to overcome you. I became the dying man,

an assassin searching for the stench of panic, one

who spoke of foul Arabic and died in that smoke.

 

 

 

[1] “Our God is greater”; often used in Muslim prayer and worship.