(for Hashem Shabani)
How his body
dangled from the corroding bar
after they accused
his Arabic verses of waging
a war against their god
still made me
clench a fist that ached
to topple-knock
the turban from a cloaked master
and the camo cap of a watchman,
so I welcomed
bombs leaving craters
of dirt and blood,
my quiet lips praying,
his elegy burning in my mind,
but I remembered Rumi,
the ripe orchard in autumn,
the fall of persimmons,
the pomegranate-stained ground
beneath the afternoon rain.
