## I
Eleven, Tehran's burning heat—
sleeve rolled high against the summer's weight,
the Revolutionary Guard's fist finds my face
like a question mark carved in flesh.
A G3 rifle barrel cold against my cheek,
the hammer clicks, a seed of fear in my chest.
First lesson in the game:
some moves are forced on you.
## II
Sixteen, when the classroom door bursts open,
militia...
Continue reading...