a photograph*

 

 

A scarf, pink

like a smile, hugs

her

hair loose,

but can’t keep in

a few revolted

strands.

 

Strands

blushed at the tips

as they taste

her face on fire

with dirt

and blood —perhaps

not hers.

 

Pink halo,

clinched fist

each finger

of which remains

curled up panting.

And in her

dusty palm

they drink, drink the

 

fear

and the hatred

and the rage.

Clinched fist,

 

held shut tight,

impenetrable,

it is her tower

from which the shout

waves like a standard.

And shoots

them dead.

 

The hand rose

the fist stood

tall

black
and bright.

 

_____

*Tehran, Green Protests, June 2009.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

______________

Photo: Unknown