Sun,

            executions,

             crimson blood

            stains in the desert

       sand bunkered off the fairway,

      blood pooled glimmering black in

    sportswashing golfers’ squinting sun—

       glassed eyes. “Jamal Khashoggi? Well,

         I never knew him really.” This T-bone

          steak putting green almost plays too

           easy. No way will this bring me to my

            knees, carefully laid plans butchered.

             Which club do they use to smash their

             heads in? Keeping the putter straight,

             I self-censor. Piano wires, fingernails being

              ripped away, screams, as if human rights lawyers

               were reaching helplessly for support. Steadying

                myself on the eighteenth green, I rerepeat

                 my mantra: ‘I am a professional golfer;

                  my only consideration is:

                   being able to smile

                    and forget about

                    everything that

                    matters’