To be the last

They never asked to be the last living person
to witness what happened, or maybe just visit
or see the Twin Towers in person, even if only from afar,
and perhaps would prefer to remain in the shadows,
away from the uninvited attention of politicians and the media,
but one day, there will be someone like that, for sure.

One day, even New Yorkers will think of 9/11
no more than we think of Verdun or the Somme,
and eventually, there will be only a handful of experts,
like with the Achaemenid destruction of Athens.

For now, while the scars are still fresh,
let’s try to avoid the mistakes of a hundred years ago.

Remember, the Great War was to be the last.

The vaginaless monologues (4)

I cried the first time you did it. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw your pubic mound—stripped of hair, skin chemically burned because you used some horrible depilatory cream. All the photos I had seen of victims of chemical attacks during the Great War flashed before my eyes. I bet you didn’t even notice. I begged you never to do that again. Same with shaving your legs and armpits. To no avail. Your excuse was the comfort but also the embarrassment of being seen in public with a hairy body, with emphasis on the latter. I have never understood that. I like body hair. I couldn’t wait for winter, because then you wouldn’t pay much attention to shaving since you were wearing pants and long sleeves anyway. But as soon as the sun began to shine brighter, you always returned to these barbaric rituals. And why? Because of some bizarre social—i.e., male—norm imposing a quasi-paedophilic image on women? Or maybe women are doing this to themselves of their own volition; perhaps they are the ones who actually incite each other, since I sincerely doubt I’m the only one who enjoys playing with short and curlies.