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.


Copyright © 2014. Hannah Stone
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved

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