Never liked Persian men
Two poems
By Leyla Momeny
May 19, 2000
The Iranian
Sunday
I recall the feeling of grass
scratching my belly
while watching you kick a ball
with a dozen other beautiful men
one blissful green day
below los angeles smog
I recall
your calve muscles
throbbing next to sepehr's
and your eyebrows dripping with sweat
like ali reza's
the engineering student from tehran
I see your lips moving in the distance
saying what, I am not sure
I am sure, however,
that it is not
as interesting
as the way your shoulder blade
stretches and teases
that nice white t-shirt
I never liked persian men
until today.
Why won't I leave
For Malia
I believe in gypsies
four a.m. conversations
and
angry black tea
cupped inside your palm
waiting for me to leave
before the sun
I do not believe in tragic endings,
insincerity, or concluding every sentence
with "you know?"
and would prefer to seep inside
this steep chair
until you apologize
