I was late today because I was on the phone with my sister planning a two week trip around Europe. We haven’t seen each other in four months. Way too long considering we lived an hour away from each other, more like ten states, or two vodka shots, or one broken jeep and a trench full of rain from each other. I was late today to plan for some sisterhood. I was late today to make time for myself, herself, and ourselves. I am late today which on other days isn’t late.
Other days, it’s thirty minutes right on time. Other days, it’s a photograph of two lovers embracing in momentary perfection. Two pints in one conversation. A biographical account and a pitied confession. On other days, I wouldn’t be late today. But you see, it started because my sister and I are planning a trip, and our minds are already on vacation. We are already freed from the “traditional” form of life (if there is such a thing!), and we have been freed from the inescapable: time.
So I am not late today,
and I won’t be considered late
Ha! Poetry is what?
Comparing a flower to the complexity of a woman’s face?
Taking the magnificence of a sunset and lowering it down to the level of a canvas’s paints?
Or taking something catastrophic like a combusting star and comparing it to a high schooler’s day?
Or is it the ability to rhyme?
To be able to chime,
with other words,
so that it flows like a song sung by birds.
Or is it finding something small?
Something not really there at all,
and bringing it to life
with such expression that one begins to cry.
Or is it made to make one shout?
To speak against the trends,
the ongoing bends
in the road,
never righting itself?
Well then, I must be a poet.
(Originally published in Toyon magazine 2005)
Who are the people that tell you yes?
Who are the people that tell you no?
Who are the people that tell you to be?
Who are the people that tell you to be anything but?
Who are the people that make you?
Who are the people that are there when you are most alone?
Mostly living alone?
Who are the people that see you?
Who are the people that hear you?
Who are the people that understand you?
Who are the people that would believe this?
When I was a little girl, a spirit followed me to Las Vegas. Running alongside the moving truck, it’s legs twisting into wings, it howled, “write damn you!”
It slithered into the clouds as I turned to tell my mother.
“That’s a nice story sweetie, and don’t say damn.”
Where are the people who would believe this?
When I was a little girl,
I believed Peter Pan
visited me in my dreams.
We lived in the trees
eating from the Earth.
In the river’s embrace
we were truly free.
(Published in “Dream a Little Dream” (#28) by The Wild Word 2018. https://thewildword.com/poetry-ae-sadeghipour/)
Smog and sounds of the city.
I am alone here.
I will see you again
in the surreal plane
of the reality
we will make together.
I am happy-sad,
and physiologically confused.
The seams are coming apart
gotta stitch them back up again
White? Of course it would be white.
the color that makes you feel
the color of a
No wonder we thought no one would love us
Why should I apologize for queefing?
What should be done about my unkempt muff?
Should period stained panties be thrown away?
Only ever periodically.
What should I do about the dark nipple hairs around my arreola?
Braid them together and run howling naked through the streets.
Should I change the sheets after cumming?
Sleep in it and feel proud that your body could experience unfiltered pleasure.