is all Mister Shakespeare’s fault:
he set it upon the stage of my homeland—
an island, deserted, which is still drowning
in the outrageous
ocean of a revengeful revolution.
I could never think that I, too,
like five million other Iranians,
one day hurry up my separate exit way
the same way as Mina did
along with her beloved Mr. Bill.
He was the last Yankee in the country
who happened to be Mina’s supervisor
in the Ministry of Telecommunication,
sent by the Bell Company, his mission was to keep
us connected together and to the world.
Mina was my mother’s colleague and the mother
of my playmates, three girls
she left behind with the husband
she escaped from. Her daughters cursed her
that she could never go back or they’d take revenge.
Coming back from a still friendly Iraq,
we ran into Mina at Mehraabaad airport.
The Shah was not gone
and Khomeini had not yet arrived.
Mr. Bill said that they had no time.
Mina whispered in our ears that she was going to change
her name to Miranda and kissed us and followed
her American gentleman down the hall,
our mouth open in amazement
like the mouth of the customs which swallowed her.
I could not believe that I, too,
one day before leaving the stage
would say the same thing to my friends,
would say that I was done,
with Taliban having his island back.
No one would cheer if you left the stage
in a hurry without a proper farewell.
No one would cheer if you told them
you saw the tempest approaching
and if they stayed there, they, too,
would drown.