LOSING YOUR HEAD
In the old days there was much smiting.
Old Masters painted burly arms, raised seconds
before the scourge dropped, deadweight
on the un-ribboned back of Christ.
Frescoes froze forever Salome’s sly smile
at her dangling trophy,
the baptizer’s neck spangling
Tuscan hillsides with ruby pigment.
A female Pre-Raphaelite showed the Utopian’s head
lowered by soldiers, in a basket;
no pot of basil for Margaret, but
tearful embalming in soft cloth.
Now, a triumphal jihadist poses
against the concrete of Raqqua’s square;
tweeting: Chillin’ with my homie
Or what’s left of him. Hashtag showed him.
Grey light filters through the chainlink;
he hides his own head from the sun’s eye
and the world’s gaze; not much left
of his humanity.