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Cover story

Poem from "A World Between: Poems Stories and Essays by Iranian-Americans" - a collection of writings by 30 authors and poets edited by Persis M. Karim and Mohammad Mehdi Khorrami (1999, George Braziller Inc., New York; 352 pages).



By Katayoon Zandvakili

In my one dream of you, I've driven miles
with no radio on, fingers to lips, unquiet,
past rails and rails, then summer, juniper,
to find you at work in a small blue hospital.
I say: Come sit next to me on the curb outside
where we are both nobodies
and tell me that I am dead to you
or that you are dead to me,
but tell me:
for someone has asked me to marry
and I am one leg gone this time, I swear it.

Only then, there is a field of slivered almonds,
teeming white, and we stand: two soft figures
in blue-green: knights. You
hand me a note, the faintest lines.

You have hoarded all these months
and I am so angry, I want to be you. But
you do not save me, and neither do these words.
And then I remember that I'm not looking
to be saved, anyway. ................. (The happening: almost: trees)


- Knowing about War: Parinaz Eleish

- Back to "Aftershock" main index
- More poems by Katayoon Zandvakili

- Comment to the poet: Katayoon Zandvakili
- Comment to the editors of "A World Between": Persis M. Karim or Mohammad M. Khorrami
- Comment for The Iranian letters section

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