confessions p. 10

Please save me from myself

I beg you, I'll break my own feet

so I am always on my knees before you

I beseech you to take up arms against me

conspire with me to betray myself

please, unsheathe your blade

color it in my blood

don't toy with me

stab me through the heart!

Let the fountain of my torn heart write in blood

that poem which no pen can write!

reflections on dust

I don't know what You're doing to me
but You've got me on my knees
kissing the dirt on the ground
because that's all I'll ever be
all I can hope to be
the dirt beneath Your feet.
So step on me, scatter me
kick me up into clouds
Your light brings out my colors.

When it rains, the water collects in my recesses
the more I recede, the deeper the flow.
In my thirst, I drill holes
through the dustmote island of my self
and seep, gently, into the sea.


******


I will plunge up to the neck in self
to implode out of my self.
I will crush the grapes of sorrow
into the laughter of wine.
I will desire my way out of desire.
I will break the forms
and put them back together
after tasting their cores.
My bones are wed to dust
but one day I will divorce
everything destined for dust.

cherry orchards

I remember

sharing glasses of ice water

beneath the shade of the elderberry tree

cool stream bubbling, my aunts chattering

platters of cucumbers, cheese
the smell of fresh bread

and tea, steaming from picnic cups
passed around with a prayer by my grandmother.

I remember

lazy afternoons under the sun

the buzz and drone of grasshoppers

my father’s rhythmic snore

and me, laughing on my back

alongside my cousin and sister

reaching up to twist off cherries of different colors

the way they would burst between my teeth

sweet juices rolling in my mouth

and the sticky feeling of their pits on my fingers.

*

And now, through air conditioned spaces

and the metallic taste of water fountains

where the midday laze is replaced

with Tim Horton’s double doubles

I still look for those red, pink and yellow cherries

in the colored aisles of the grocery store.

"Message"

She doesn’t know how she got to be lying on her back

but she is calm as an empty dead end in Tehran.

Her eyes peer between legs running away from her

as the rip of the gunshot rings in the air.

Hands heavy, palms open, fingers unfurled

she watches the crowd racing, eyes darting, teeth gnashing

and hears them scream and yell as though underwater.

A camera seizes upon her graceful stillness

she sees it, and for a moment

before her last breath like a step without feet

before the lights dim and colors fade so the blood

which pours out her orifices looks no different

than the green of a nearby tree leaf

for a moment, in that tryst of eyes and camera lens

she shares with it her story, her namesake

Neda.

dying season

In these downtown streets there are no half smoked butts
only the erratic heartbeat of cars, vents and traffic lights,
the pallid tone of flesh beneath fluorescent lamps
as we break into quick smiles between hurried bites
along fancy store fronts, foul back alleys and the reek
of second hand smoke, cheap coffee and stale glances.
Old christmas lights hanging expired from branches
with amber brown buds about to bloom at their peak.

I seep into dawn and grow with Spring's first call
I long to taste the colored tones
of newborn life amidst gardens of bones
and soak in the sun like leaves before they fall.
I want to consume every scent as daily bread
and listen to the stories carried in the breeze
I want to be overwhelmed in all the season's senses
for a passing glimpse of that unnameable presence.

***

this is a recycled revision of 3 past pieces.