— on your back on the dirt path—
— trying to sit up, scrabble to your feet, only the faggots are already upon you—
— a hands-and-legs flickering—
— you are on your side suddenly—
— on your belly—
— leaf bits grinding against your cheek—
— your arms yanked back—
— knee jagged into your spine—
— and you are wondering where your gun has gone, why you can’t seem to reach it—
— their language returning you to Mohammed—
— handcuffs snicking into place—
— and they are shouting at you, telling you what you will do next—
— you will stop struggling, this is what you will do next, you will stop resisting arr—
— you will do what you are told, and you will do it now—
— because your options have sifted down to this one—
— and there you are standing, hobbled, a hot nugget inside your thigh, the world become someone else’s—
— locked between a pair of them—
— one behind you, one in front—
— you can smell the egg the faggot ate for breakfast—
— the hatred on his breath—
— you are glaring into his faithless eyes—
— watching his faithless mouth move as if it has something to say—
— only you can’t hear a thing—
— because you are smiling too hard—
— because it occurs to you they think they’ve got you—
— because they believe they’re taking you away—
— because you are hovering before them, smiling, wrists fastened behind you, saying, almost civilly, almost politely:
You believe what you believe—
— think what you think—
— but you’ll be seeing more of me—
— I promise—