He was from remote mountains of Mazandaran, my father son of horseback riding Amards.
Once a tall handsome man, his eyes Caspian Sea under clear skies, his hair a dazzle of light, delicate glasses and ego in stiff three piece silence, stony gaze and saucy grin, he spoke like a starched sage
bought me my first clip earrings when I was ten, single pearls he made the vendor paint crimson, took me to my first theatre night out in downtown Tehran, up on the stage shimmering figures whirled and twirled into ecstasy, he gazed off into space, remote like a wild thing
on the edge of the world his mouth locked into an horizon disciplined, always on time, diplomatic, witty, smooth sublime, formality in his booming voice, every crisis handled with poise.
“He is an Englishman, your father,” my mother repeated in a hush when I was six her eyes lit up with a mischievous smile.
Life lightly danced on the ray of time and I felt my way into my last lover’s embrace a tall sightly man, blue stare buried in his face, golden hair falling in curls frameless glasses, twirls of smoke rising from his endless cigarette quick wit and crisp accent, obsessed with his horseback riding routine, treated me with tenderness, distant like a cold mountain on the horizon.
One autumn evening back home from his riding, his sliding food into the oven, my reciting dreams to the baby, cat’s confused delving into this maze of domestic bliss, and we at last, seated on the same sofa, two inches apart, he said with apprehension, “Oh, we are sitting too close!”
Syllables of chimera shattered on the floor and I lit up like a blaze
held the copper moon in my open mouth, drove to my friend’s house in the fractured air, threw myself onto her sofa and cried out loud,
“I married my father, damn it! I married my father!”