NEDA

One hand, palm up,
won’t recapture the other,
her spilt blood pale as water.
Eyes vanish like a line of Basij attack—
eyes cold as glass against the storm.
We still hear the echo of her voice
(Neda, you know, is Farsi for voice),
and we imagine its becoming a wind
that will pity all of us.
All compassionate creation bends to this loss
and lullabies us.
Coming back to some sort of life,
Iran’s ghosts howl like orphaned wolves
dreaming, dreaming, dreaming
of justice at last.

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