Dancing Tango
Oh, Orlando!
Remember the night we danced
quietly on the sands where music
was played? Your words were
wonderers, said quietly
in the pockets of my ears.Oh, Esphahan!
With your turquoise blue mosques
and lovers hiding under the sands
by the Zayandehrood and its haunting
blue skies. Still the words did
wonders when they were said quietly
in the pockets of my ears.Time is eternity, my dignity
resides in yours and your
words are wonders that I count
as precious coins kept quietly
in the pockets of my tears.Published in the Asian American Female Poets Anthology 2007
Nothing
Nothing is all I am,
Nothing overloading nothing,
Closing the doors,
Opening an extra into an empty space,
Nothing ensues but a further war.The bombs, lights that blind and Damascus,
Burning after Tehran. Sisters calling in despair,
Brothers ambivalent to the arms of infidels. Nothing happens,
But children die, and journalists are filming for a deadline.Nothing comes after nothing but I,
Kneel, cry for nothing,
and still the shepherd birds do not burn in flight.Nothing happens. I walk by the Central Park,
Next to nothing, and the no-fly zone is
Just nothing yet throat slides over throat,
Bullets shoot and blood drops. Here nothing happens
But I write to keep nothing from overloading nothing.Sitting Buddha
Sitting Buddha
When life turns to soil,
And the soil turns to stone
And trees become the logs,
And the curse of winter converts to broken doorknobs.Sitting Buddha,
You know at the core,
The earth is made of gold
And why the fires luster through
Bronzes and barrel seats,
And, yes, Jesus walks on the sea of thoughts.
Mohammad, Prophets, Feminism,
And Moses speaks to the Burning Bush,
But you want to remain unteachable
And nourish on dreams,
Creaming your bread,
Drinking the wine
Out of a weighty crystal glass
As your bones beat the wooden floors
Flip flop. Craving to rest, to find the edge of the world.Shadows cover your palms,
Shadows cover your eyes,
Plants grow, and trees leaf on fresh,
You jungle the path in green
To bread the next... navel...You are not unreachable.
Drawings
The little girl's drawing,
walking
with her father
hand in hand
in a Halloween costume...
and a rabbit,
the Sun,
a white home.
The mother's drawing but...
showing her dad, dead
behind prison walls,
the soldiers with guns,
the war,
the cluster bombs.
Sweet dreams and dream of me, he said
I think to myself... dreams never come true
I never got the red shoes... I was 5.
The bombing didn't stop... I was 8.
Mother doesn't return from her grave... I am 31.I want him not in writings, not in dreams. I want him as the day aches night.
5.7
I don't care if you are you and I am I. I am not some exotic flower. Whatever coat you have on, I will put it on to warm me... and the shoes however small... I will walk in them to balance our height difference. You don’t need to convert for me; I have already converted to you. You see I never had a religion to begin with. I was born naked from all religions but your love.
I know that was not the point. I know there is no conversion. There is no coat, no balance, no shoes but the naked truth of me finding you first, not you finding me. You, whom will never know who I was when I was sitting on the white sheets.
Y o u, not b e s i d e m e.
And the words that are already written. The words that are already said, are already felt, and are already gone.
And I try to take them back into my empty bowl of hands. To put my hands on the chest. The chest into rest. The rest in to the heart. The beat back to the soul. The soul, back to what it was before you.
Alas! I am 5.7