among a group of nine-year-old girls
in a formal celebration of their puberty,
reminding them to cover up their bodies,
and though they don’t know algebra
or abstract reasoning, they must
understand that acting against his laws
will take them to prison.
I think of the teenage girl
who vlogged her thoughts
on the revolution, released
from prison so her jailers, knowing
she would die from injuries,
could claim she killed herself
when her breath gave itself up
a few hours later.
The floor beneath her body
would show no stains of blood—
the red dried and coercive, clinging
to her face and throat
veiling how young she was. I don’t remember
the streets of Iran. I can’t describe the dying
air. But I can imagine her mother’s
trembling phone, her family
carrying the girl home
to give her a secret funeral.