30 Khordad
Poem
By Niloofar Kalaam
June 19, 2000
The Iranian
Thanks to The Iranian Times I realized it is the 19th anniversary
of the 30th of Khordad massacre (June 19, 1981). Has it really been 19
years? The realization made me look up a poem I wrote several years ago.
So your boat is built
you've taken to sea.
I cannot blame you-
though I'm left alone-
on this fog-ridden island
where I grope my way-
The signs are many
Yesterday I found a walking stick:
a fallen branch with blistered bark.
Stripped, I found a tendril
coiled around its base.
Each night I dig the earth
for bulbs.
The smell of decay freshens the air.
Death comes close fear
lurks in the shadows behind trees.
I weigh the bulbs in my palms
and choose a sharp one.
Its bite sears through
to the sting of fabric fused into skin
with blood.
When I light a fire
the belly of Time swells
with the smell of burning flesh.
I see the arc of your charred toes-
Contractions seem near.
These are not much, I know.
But I have too the memory of the sparkle your eyes once held
When rain drummed the beat of our collective pulse
and We
were happy.
I see you
rowing your boat
I feel the rush in your veins
the struggle of muscle with memory-
Remember the night we parted paths?
From the footsteps of rain rose-what?
We unwrapped our longings
Like old women once abandoned at the altar
their wedding gowns.
The air was thick and the moon's profile
vague in its smile.
Our spirits rose and stretched
like late afternoon shadows
across forbidden zones.
The road to the outhouse beckoned-
we stared.
Metal door pockmarked with rust
Conspicuous lock
the latch amateurishly welded
Marks as gross as knife wounds healed
without stitches.
"Let us fetch our metal clogs
and walking sticks
and inspect this festering dump
that hides beneath our skin."
But you had carried your busyness
far too long-
aerosol deodorant
held close against your skin.
"The more we stir our shit
the greater the stink
I'm afraid the stench can drive us off-
even a Golden Bridge."
So your boat is built
you're rowing hard.
I cannot blame you-
though I'm left alone-
on this fog-ridden island
where I grope my way home.
For old times' sake
leave me the cable tracks etched upon your back.
That record you cradle within your flesh
is the brail
that leads my way
For I promise you
Upon the sparkle your eyes once held
Upon the unified flow of abandoned longings
And the secret smile of a crescent moon
I will piece my map together
from scraps of memory
and footprints of Rain
I will find my way
to that nest of terror
where our humanity lies
coiled.
But tell me, Dearest
when you stop to clear your brow
between the rise and fall of your oar
does decay not flower in your throat
does your Golden Bridge not beckon you
to dive?
--December 1996
