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–
Laughing,
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,
Shipped
Galaxies away
Who knows
Where our hearts
Could be free from the exile
We feel-
When we say goodbye for years
Or perhaps
Forever…
