An Afternoon In Riyadh Poem by Bert Bell

.


She was a delicate woman, maybe
five foot one, about ninety-
five pounds fully dressed− a pretty

face was all you could see of her−
a scarf covered her hair,
a black ankle-length abaya hid her

heart and her kindness. she stepped
off the curb in Riyadh in front
of a religious policeman, when an angry,

unknown misogynist's fist struck her in the face
and knocked her
to the ground bruised and bleeding,

his voice ranting something about excessive
eye make-up. the abuser
kept walking, as did everyone else

on the busy street, and no one, not
even the policeman, helped the woman
to her feet− that's just how life

can be for women on any given day in the land
of kings, and princes,
and oil fields and double standards,

if not for make-up, then for being
unchaperoned in public
by a male relative, or for revealing too much

collarbone, and a plethora
of other infractions where women merely
accused of infidelity are sometimes

executed in public by a swipe of the sword
to their neck− no fair trial, no fuss−
just sharia law serving the fascist government.