She doesn’t know how she got to be lying on her back
but she is calm as an empty dead end in Tehran.
Her eyes peer between legs running away from her
as the rip of the gunshot rings in the air.
Hands heavy, palms open, fingers unfurled
she watches the crowd racing, eyes darting, teeth gnashing
and hears them scream and yell as though underwater.
A camera seizes upon her graceful stillness
she sees it, and for a moment
before her last breath like a step without feet
before the lights dim and colors fade so the blood
which pours out her orifices looks no different
than the green of a nearby tree leaf
for a moment, in that tryst of eyes and camera lens
she shares with it her story, her namesake
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