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 Pilgrimage from America to IranBy Roger Sedarat February 28, 2002 The Iranian Your heart is a sour cherry in rice; steam surrounds you, moist white like a cumulus cloud hiding a jagged pinnacle. A spot of sun comes bitter on the eyes; I am having lunch in a village with my grandfather; my squinting cuts the Zargos to a strip the size of a blade of saffron. All the while the thought of you back in Texas sticks to me here, as I bite into tadeq, the front of my head smarting from seeing you in your red dress, without a chador, kissing me goodbye. More than puckered lips, I miss the twisted strands of your hair, the way you'd stand over me in bed like an Iranian Rupunzel before leaving for work. Woman of my two countries, I could whirl on one perfumed spiral up this mountain like a dervish, my head pounding with Zarathustrian thunder, your tears dancing on my sunburned face like lines of Khyaam read on a train. With you here heat and bearded soldiers are no longer oppressive. Near the apex I open my eyes and am surrounded, like a pilgrim, by untouched snow.
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