POETRY

Married at fourteen,
Her half-blossomed bosoms
Literate in cooking and cleaning--
My mother, her first daughter
At nineteen,
Clinging to her apron--

She doesn't pray anymore,
She says in America,
who know?
What direction
the sun rises from--

Laughing,
Her blushing olive cheeks,
And raspy voice, triggers nostalgia
Deep in my subconscious

I have made her a great grandmother
In Farsi, we can't even think of a word for that-
She says, this is her last time coming--
With her bad knees
and her gallon zipper bag
filled with Advil and Ibuprofen.
At 71, or 72,
who knows?
She says,
she's too old...

Growing fragile-
More precious with age;
yet still sharp,
as the day is long...

This flower,
Shipped
Galaxies away

Who knows
Where our hearts
Could be free from the exile
We feel-
When we say goodbye for years

Or perhaps

Forever...