Circa Nineteen Sixty,
dining hall, Rugby Public School.
Fork clangs on floor
as Salman Rushdie, still hair on his head
instead of a price, chokes on a kipper.
A hundred eyes
slouch back to their plates,
to a Greek bust, cricket trophy
or new boy’s bottom.
Is it the kipper of Islamic Fundamentalism?
Is he choking on its fatwa bone?
Will that hacking sound eventually produce the word
“Khomeini”?
