by Sawsan Khalaf

The same way pink-faced college kids
Yelled at the President, the war, the country
The same way the hipsters stood and said
“What the hell” to America with cigarettes
between their teeth
The same way us Bahrainis scrawl graffiti over
The rulers’ heads, amputated by headshots
In their glorious photographs
The same way they said we ain’t standing for this
Only in Ikea couches and in a
soft voice
The same way I lie in bed at 4:26
Turning the pillow to the cold side and
Watching the city through dirt-stained
Glass panes and wanting to break though
To that cloud up near the Grand Continental
And deliver the world’s message
To you.