Poetry

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The story

June 22, 2001
The Iranian

When you first placed your mouth on mine

you could not know

that my soul would slip off my tongue

such a slight and subtle thing

and now, I fear, you have swallowed it.

There are oceans unfolding in your throat.

Your stories are ships that may never return.

I had gone with them, the story goes

and now I am lost

half-drowned and bedraggled

where your dolphins weave their dance

as they sing, velvety, wet:

She is waiting for you, and she drowns in her dream

She is wet, she is waiting for you

You have swallowed me, love, you must spit me out

or I'll learn to swim in your sea.

Comment for The Iranian letters section Comment for poet Zara Houshmand