POETRY

is all Mister Shakespeare’s fault:

he set it upon the stage of my homeland—

an island, deserted, which is still drowning

in the outrageous

ocean of a revengeful revolution.

I could never think that I, too,

like five million other Iranians,

one day hurry up my separate exit way

the same way as Mina did

along with her beloved Mr. Bill.

He was the last Yankee in the country

who happened to be Mina’s supervisor

in the Ministry of Telecommunication,

sent by the Bell Company, his mission was to keep

us connected together and to the world.

Mina was my mother’s colleague and the mother

of my playmates, three girls

she left behind with the husband

she escaped from. Her daughters cursed her

that she could never go back or they’d take revenge.

Coming back from a still friendly Iraq,

we ran into Mina at Mehraabaad airport.

The Shah was not gone

and Khomeini had not yet arrived.

Mr. Bill said that they had no time.

Mina whispered in our ears that she was going to change

her name to Miranda and kissed us and followed

her American gentleman down the hall,

our mouth open in amazement

like the mouth of the customs which swallowed her.

I could not believe that I, too,

one day before leaving the stage

would say the same thing to my friends,

would say that I was done,

with Taliban having his island back.

No one would cheer if you left the stage

in a hurry without a proper farewell.

No one would cheer if you told them

you saw the tempest approaching

and if they stayed there, they, too,

would drown.