Boast about having enough fire

to light a cigarette.

The rose you slipped a noose around

will rot.

In the quietest chamber of blood

you will burn that day.

While you burn,

Iran’s throat will fill with marches—

cities will cry out

like iron mouths.

And you—

you’ll drown

inside that rose.

The day we see you fall—

not far off,

tomorrow or the next—

yes, you—

you’ll smell of ash.

You’ll be condemned

inside a woman’s curse.