Ari Fararooy
By
I.B. Rad
Dark Adaptation
Blinded
by their “otherness”,
we couldn’t see
any conceivable humanity
until, gradually,
our impaired vision’s aftermath
came into view:
A Boschian nightmare
with gutted hellscapes
hemorrhaging rivers
of gushing red
disgorging disjoined
heads, limbs, torsos,
and torrents of refugees
streaming toward
the borders,
while, lifted
on a pedestal of ruin,
Madonna and child
crouch, transfixed
by bursts of light
radiating
from eruptions
of shooting stars,
though none
to steer us
by.
Clouds
Cotton clouds
drifting by my window,
if only I could evaporate
into constituent molecules
and waft past
these prison bars
to coalesce
in the upper atmosphere
so that one day
I could rain
on that smug son of a bitch
who put me here!
