If your head must be cut from your shoulders

art beautiful bloom blooming

Photo by Magda Ehlers on Pexels.com

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.

One Response to “If your head must be cut from your shoulders”

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