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 Our mamaBy Ramtin November 20, 2002 The Iranian You were raised to serve tea and keep rugs clean. You have scrubbed the walls until Your hands bled red like the wine You were forbidden to touch. and You never complained. You wove Your dreams into black veils and wore them tight. and even when it got too hot You never complained You married a face not a person so You loved marriage not a man. and You never complained. Your fingers rubbed Your kindness into babies that made You suffer yet always brought You joy. You asked Allah for blessings as they grew but He was hard to find among all these trees. Your daughters married White men and Your sons slept with women who saw Your hijab as weakness. and You never complained. You threw dirt across the sea and buried Your Mama, to gorbat, and Your exiled heart never complained. You broke fast with the wetness from Your eyes. each drop burning Your soul. and You never complained You woke facing the east and slept with Your face towards the heavens never doubting His presence. You prayed until You finally found Your way home though it's changed, and maimed and yet You never complained.
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