The Iraqi Female Suicide Bomber Who Blew Off Her Arms and Legs

By J.B. Stevens

The smell of burnt meat came through the photos, 
It tickled the back of my brain, 
Bunt meat smells different (better) than burnt hair, 
I didn’t know you can smell photos, 
But you can. 

I learned a hard fact— 
When you utilize a suicide-bombing vest, 
Make sure the maker knows what the fuck they are doing, 
Professional work is important in all things, 
Even terrorism. 

The woman was a victim, 
We know that, 
But I was glad I wasn’t there when she pushed the button. 

She was probably a widow, 
Probably overcome with grief and rage and confusion, 
I still don’t know why I was there, 
She belonged. 

I didn’t. 
I still don’t.  
I don’t belong anywhere and I know that, 
Forever-War is very confusing. 

The maker under-powered the suicide vest/bomb, 
When the woman pushed the button, 
It sounded like a firework, 

And it blew off her arms and legs, 
And lower face, 
But— 

It didn’t kill anyone other than her,
And she died slow.
And she died hurting.

You really need a professional for these things. 
Professionalism matters.

****

J.B. Stevens lives in the Southeastern United States with his wife and daughter. His short story collection A Therapeutic Death is a 2022 from Shotgun Honey. His pop poetry collection The Best of America Cannot Be Seen is available from Alien Buddha Press. 

Stevens was a finalist for the Claymore award for crime fiction. He was nominated for the Pushcart prize for poetry. He won Mystery Tribune’s inaugural micro-fiction contest. 

Before his writing career, J.B. was a United States Army Infantry Officer. He served in Iraq and earned a Bronze Star. He is an undefeated Mixed Martial Arts Fighter and a Black Belt in Brazilian Jiujitsu. He graduated from The Citadel. 

To keep up with his writing, join his newsletter at JB-Stevens.com.