Thursday, June 18, 2009

Thinking about the Iranian Election Protests


Careless, standing in the moment, gulf and redact,

censorship accumulates at my bare feet

like candy wrappers.

A small, bloodied boy

takes off his baseball cap to show me his wound,

beet red in a round gash, the size

of a Franklin half-dollar. He isn’t crying, just

a little surprised and scared. He doesn’t know

enough to be scared. But the others, falling

through the glass windows of shops selling

electronics, selling kebabs, selling postage

and airline tickets to somewhere else, know too

much to be surprised. Even the hollow,

low moans of the old woman slumped over

a steel mesh trash bin, translate as

the boredom of expectation and dulling

predictability. This is not a place to stand,

not like a stream, but riverside; the bodies,

green fists and black masks of remembrance

heave past the sidewalk banks, gathering

up more of the fragile earth, trees, and rocks.

The underpinnings whittle, the foundations

erode by precipitous degree until

all that remains intact is the roaring will to flood.

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