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After Israa al-Ghomgham
I recall the solitary scarlet flower I took apart as a child
standing out from a gilded vase of flowers boasting their erect penises.
I recall ripping off its head and a red fragrant spray waxing my fingers.
Standing in the crime scene accused I blamed it on my brother.
I vividly remember how a snail left a silver road to where it rested in peace,
it was in my nature to interrupt that calmness and end its life with my shoe.
I recall the gold of its guts and the sound of an insignificant thunder,
that night I felt so bad that I watched them in the rain drag home to burials.
As a boy, I remember having no interest in the colours and meanings of flags,
except for one in blue-collars who hoisted me up to the proud godless sky
who told me that I was a spaceman of suburbia in a hand me down cape,
I had these powers once and I saved the world of a thousand lowly snails.
Soon in Saudi Arabia, a beautiful country where sun shines its whole face,
there is a woman burying her head in her hands awaiting man’s decision.
Her fate is of the snail, of the scarlet flower that lost its proud head and home.
I remember my mother making me wash the vase and the throwing away of limbs.
I remember feeling inhuman
I remember it all my friend,
the stench of petals,
thickening water
life gurgling
in drains.
Peace Poet Antony Owen 