Shahé Mankerian: Starting a Trail

They dragged a man down the street
with gunshot celebrations,
with gold-plated Christs around their necks,
with boys learning to throw stones.

They dragged a man
who worshiped the other god,
who spoke a different dialect,
who wore a militant scarf.

He lived in a metal shack
without windows, without a wife,
without the Koran on the nightstand.
He couldn’t read.

They dragged a dead man.
He died miles before.
He died long before a rope was tied
around his ankle. He died

when he carried his first gun,
when he was fourteen,
when he realized god was a bullet,
when he pulled the trigger.

Copyright Shahé Mankerian. Used here by kind permission of the author.