Persian has no Pronouns

We do not address you
by a word that means nothing

Her name is more powerful
than their pronouns

We do not hide behind I
when expressing me

Do not take it offensively

They don’t understand this
His tryst
When it is he and she but not we

There is no power in you

They, us and we
are arbitrary

The man is she
and the woman is he
but we are it

Do not forfeit
to this
unnecessary metaphor

 

(Published in “Seven Countries Poetry Anthology” by Arroyo Seco Press 2017. Originally published on 06/17/2016)

Creative Creator

Where does your creative space go?

Mine seems to disappear sometimes.

Not sure where.

Sometimes she’s

gone for a long time

And then

why hello there

 

Cinema Rex

Abadan.net2.jpg

The police burned the theater.
Padlocked the door
with people still inside.
They doused the theater
in kerosene
and crossed the street
to watch it burn.
Whether the theater attendees
were heretics or
not
is irrelevant.

The image of their
melting faces
haunts me.
The outsiders who weren’t afraid
clawed at the padlock.
The police smiled as they
cocked their guns and
flicked their cigarette butts.

Purging a necessary evil,
the event must be cleansed,
evidence destroyed.
The police were just doing their job.

But there was a survivor.
A fuzzy black and white Polaroid
of a gasoline truck in front of a charred poster.
The only survivor
incineration inevitable
but like Winston
I let it go down the chute
and now it has been burned away
charred in forgetful memories.

(Published in “Seven Countries Poetry Anthology” ” via Arroyo Seco Press 2017)

(Originally published on 06/03/2016. Image transferred from en.wikipedia to Commons by BanyanTree using CommonsHelper.; source: http://abadan.net, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6081274)

Mother Tongue

Sometimes I wish

I was born white and blank.

My eyes survey the room in technicolor

Charlie Chaplin spectrum of silence.

I scream and

water pours out

of my mouth

My hands clutch

my face

everyone turns

and stares.

The dark man

in the back

winks

but smiles white.

My colors are spilling

out.

I’m asked to clean it up

handed a sieve.

I fill the porous container

and stumble towards the window.

A river trails behind me

Iridescent scars slashed across the floor.

I try to throw it

out the window

but the sieve is empty.

I laugh.

Then I sing

a kaleidoscopic downpour

and I douse myself with it.

(Published in “Hell Bitches #3”  via Radish 2017 & “Seven Countries Poetry Anthology” via Arroyo Seco Press 2017)

Originally published on 06/03/2016

 

Santa Ana Niño

Dancing with me

swirling my clothes

sensually upward

slamming doors

whipping itself to the ground

upward shredding force

home to splinters

roaring whispers

lulling back to sleep

in the warm

summer sun

delicate rocking

my hair swims

feeling the force