by Tara Shirani

Married at fourteen,
Her half-blossomed bosoms
Literate in cooking and cleaning--
My mother, her first daughter
At nineteen,
Clinging to her apron--

She doesn't pray anymore,
She says in America,
who know?
What direction
the sun rises from--

Her blushing olive cheeks,
And raspy voice, triggers nostalgia
Deep in my subconscious

I have made her a great grandmother
In Farsi, we can't even think of a word for that-
She says, this is her last time coming--
With her bad knees
and her gallon zipper bag
filled with Advil and Ibuprofen.
At 71, or 72,
who knows?
She says,
she's too old...

Growing fragile-
More precious with age;
yet still sharp,
as the day is long...

This flower,
Galaxies away

Who knows
Where our hearts
Could be free from the exile
We feel-
When we say goodbye for years

Or perhaps




Very nice. Touching.

by Anonymouse on

Everything is sacred.


horrid goodbyes

by Monda on

Practicing over decades, I try to be proactive with the pain of saying goodbye. I automatically and quietly mourn their losses weeks before they actually get on that plane.  With some loved ones though even that technique doesn't work. Your Grandmother sounds like one of those beloved.  Your share is so close to our hearts. 


La voz de la sinceridad.

by Sinibaldi on

La sinceridad  de una nostalgia  reside en la  tristeza de un  tierno destino, y ese palido  viento recuerda el sabor de una rima silente.     Francesco Sinibaldi



by Mehrban on

I too am afraid, each time I say good bye, that it maybe for ever.  Nice work, thank you for sharing.