Poetry

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My childhood

By Mina Javaherbin
May 1, 2001
The Iranian

Juicy tomatoes, feta cheese, fresh bread

cucumbers and yogurt,

grandfather waters

the parched earth of his rose garden.

Scent of sweat, blood, and lovemaking

locked in earth

since the beginning of time

evaporates from clay to dust,

reminds me, of something,

I can not recall.

Summer sun creeps

behind lazy brick walls.

Fat fish lull in the green pool

and swallow bread crumbs.

Rolled up mattresses on wooden beds

beckon soft.

The air is old and familiar.

My eyes turn from grand father to the sky.

The first evening star

explodes its pieces into my eyes.

I wish, I never looked up.

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