POETRY

Omid joined the crowd.
A firefly followed
through the iron gate
and into the night.

He wondered aloud,
what he did by himself,
inside his head,
was it wrong or right?

What a stupid thing
to remember now,
his mother holding him,
digging in his elbow

her warm prayer ring,
her concentration deep,
repeating over and over
her voice harsh, then mellow.

He could barely see
through the gold mesh
of the mausoleum.
He understood nothing.

The foreign tongue,
rain on covered cheeks,
the opulence of the tomb.
He began weeping.

"Just because they do,
you shouldn't have to."
Another boy stared
from the quiet zone

littered with the coins
and thin paperwork.
Tapping the bars,
he looked grim all alone.

"Are you really dead?"
Omid finally said.
"I was. Once.
Before my mom came."

Farah was content
with the large turnout.
She tightened her scarf
and whispered his name.

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