At Behzad’s house,
hiding from his mom,
and her greasy stew,
we hid under a bed
in the clay room.
Cool and modest,
we leafed through piles
of magazines depicting
mountain goats,
gazelles, leopards
and hunters scoping
in rocky moats,
farthest and closest
as the yasmin in bloom
covering the view
of the scrawniest boys.
This alien world,
vaguely American,
the lone horseman,
self-sufficient,
hunting and bringing
his own meal home.
It’s still there,
away from rooftops,
antennas, highways,
under the light
the blue blue
transparent dome.
jam11
