Submissive

A local fashion designer was selling shirts

with transparent vinyl windows cut across the chest

and red lettering that read diagonally: Submissive.

I planned to buy fifteen of the shirts and fifteen

red ball gags, travel to the b’lad and enlist shebab,

young men, to wear them at the weekly protest in Bil’in.

I’d photograph them in close-ups as spit spilled

around the perforated ball gags down their chins

while they dodged and threw back tear gas canisters.

After all, these were adventurous Palestinians.

They made worldwide headlines when

they painted their bodies cornflower blue.

They wore blue leggings and long wigs, hair clips,

fake pointy ears, and keffiyehs around their waists

as skirts—they were the Na’vi from Avatar.

In the end, I didn’t ask them to wear

the Submissive shirts. I didn’t ask them anything.

I didn’t even go to Bil’in. I didn’t even see Avatar.