Shahé Mankerian: Blindfold

Mother, cover your eyes. No need to see

the man pressed against the bleeding tar

of the asphalt. Ignore the satin moth

trapped inside the empty jar of tarragon.

The helicopter with the quivering nostrils

will hover over the burning cemetery.

The man with the wheezing esophagus

is not a dragon. Don’t look. I’ll force

open the lid of the empty jar. The rotor

blades of the helicopter will drown

his unnecessary plea: “I can’t breathe.

I can’t—” Mother, cover your eyes.

I will smother the embers with my boots

and gift the unmarked grave to the man.