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!”
