his last few days
a hollowed 90 pounds, disslolved by cancer
in that room, in a townhouse in San Diego,
far from the “khak” of the land he loved so much
in that room, with the Persian rug, he hauled over continents
and oceans to give me
seeing ghosts, he gets up
weeping, kissing the Qu'ran, he beats his forhead against it
and asks what he has done wrong
my mother softly replies “nothing 'Doctorjoon', you have done nothing
wrong.
go back to sleep.”
he sinks back down on the bed
the pillow,
a large white raft,
holding up his small ancient head
my sister and I
like two shrinking balloons
remnants of an old birthday party
attached by a thin string
float helplessly toward the ceiling.
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