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Poetry

My meeting with God

 

October 3 , 2005
iranian.com

 

I would kneel, knee to wood

if it pleased you.

I would lay forehead to the ground

if it were a need to.

 

But in the deepest corner of my heart

I hear your voice.

You reach out and take my hand.

"No need to get dirty, come sit with me," you say.

 

I sink into the cushions.

Sit for a minute.

I want time to slow down.

I want to wear every moment on my skin.

My body feels too small for all that I feel.

 

My eyes feel heavy and wet,

you see a lifetime of mischief in them,

I see endless tenderness in yours.

My crooked grin: your creation.

The stubborn tilt to my chin: mine.

 

You look at me with pride,

and I'm humbled.

"What of all my mistakes?" I ask.

"Who says they were just mistakes?"

 

And then we talk.

I tell you everything.

Everything you already know.

"You gave me some harsh returns at times."

"Only when you were serving hard," you answer.

I'm silent but I'm nodding.

I get it.

 

I would kneel, knee to wood,

would lay forehead to the ground--

but in the deepest corner of my heart

I hear your voice

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To Baharak Sedigh

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Stories From Iran
A Chicago Anthology 1921-1991
edited by Heshmat Moayyad

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