Upon a disembodied shooting-trainer’s command,
Aamilah knelt, accepted a Glock in hand,
she felt cold metal, zeroed-in on a target,
she saw a dark human-shape, riddled with holes,
lots of successful head-shots, some in limbs,
presumably designed to slow-down the dark-target.
The trainer willed to make Aamilah “Expert,”
a pious advocate of “Just War, kill or or be killed,”
he scolded her for mistakenly turning the Glock
toward him, “Hey, one never-ever does that Aamilah!”
He recommended squeezing trigger very gently,
like beckoning for help, tough-love will exit oily barrels.
Goosebumps formed on feathery skin,
she tousled aside locks of blonde hair,
Aamilah was eight years old again,
and the black-target came to life, grimaced,
and Aamilah thought she knew him.
To qualify as Expert,
she needed to score 10 head-shots,
5-rounds into Hans Andersen’s arms and legs.
“C’mon, Aamilah… open fire!
I cannot stay here forever,
waiting for just one Angel to qualify.”
Aamilah trembled, perished once in Falluja,
“Ibtilal” given to her for birthday. ((In Arabic, “Ibtilal” means occupation, i.e.; Crusaders who slaughtered Muslims, Jews, Orthodox Christians. From Nir Rosen’s “In the Belly of the Green Bird.”))
Call of duty, she closed eyes, squeezed trigger,
little shapes dived into a sand-box,
a teacher told them to “unbutton shirts,
get as low to ground as possible!”
Loud noises, a lock-down in heaven,
Aamilah’s rounds missed everything,
she was sent back for more practice,
executed again in Sandy Hook Elementary,
Aamila looked down range, Nuclear Age, a Kalashnikov.