Before and After the Iranian Revolution
In the early eighties the shipment
was denied entry onto our land.
The dildos likely still buoy bloated
on the gray sea, greasy with the surplus
of embargoed oil, choking the long-inflamed
passage through the strait neck of Hormuz
like a midnight belch. They turned away
many goods and bright colors, our men,
barely managing, fumbling to keep
our confounding thighs, our unruly hair
out of view, and rule the country
with the other fist, without foreign
aid, trade, or hair spray.
The fifties and sixties ushered in the Tango,
Twist arrived in cassette tapes packed
with overlap miniskirts. In the late seventies,
after the revolution, our Sony players still sucked
the Hollywood VHS in place, coached us
in the new Occidental moves, we clapped
to each other’s jig, our belly-dancing hips
swinging easy in the warmth of kerosene heaters.
Late eighties though, it was then that
the definition of Dirty Dancing grew broad
to embrace our lashes, lips and other indecencies.
We were urged to keep still, not fiddle
with our faces. It was then that stoning came
back in vogue. Most of us missed out entirely
on Swayze’s steps and those who played
the clandestine soundtrack past earshot
got ninety-nine lashes, one for every name
of God. Virgins took it the hardest, a Coca Cola
bottle inserted in the rectum and a torn vagina
sealed their outcast state— flapping that wide
they couldn’t leave their cells, their splayed souls
would never fit through Heaven’s narrow gate,
nor contain its pleasures.
Still today we’re not to be trusted
with a casual glance, a dildo,
though we can’t help
but sit with our hair by the window,
and enjoy the Persian rose,
the scent wafting in,
out and in,
freely.
Mrs. Farahmand and Mrs. Henderson Share Drinks on the Eve of War
The moment you enter I stretch across
my moist lips a taut and glossy smile,
transparent as Saran Wrap, preserving us
at a good arm’s length where you lean
into my island, your unbuttoned
blouse breathing, your favorite
perfume wafting over.
I realize it’s mere temporary mercy,
yet it saves us, believe me, my strained
charade, from spoiling the perfectly blameless
afternoon, our cultural incompetence betraying us both
with such topics as the Red Sox, Axl Rose
and how well he has aged, the toughness of sanctions
on Iran, which member of the female
body is left bare in the Qur’an and whatever
happened to my mother and her tongue.
A long list of taboo topics each petering
out at the embarrassed dead-end,
though a small amount of ill-at-ease
we can both tolerate like a low-grade fever.
From the corner graciously beams
my professional Cuisinart with the continuous feed head,
my gambit for reviving the dead air. The kitchen,
too, I’ve aired, sumac subdued, cardamom
and clove, saffron, sealed in vials lest they seep
and clash with our summer menu of baby
kale and nasturtium, thin sole
fillets propped up on bouncy beds of greens.
Yet a few cocktails in, we predictably
thaw in our Riviera high chairs, I lean
into the counter and confess how long
it’s been since sex, you advise how best
to ease into the full dosage of black cohosh
now that menopause has hit.
Then after a boozy tiramisu we sop up
with a shared spoon, I usher you, Sea Breeze in hand,
onto the twilit patio, where a phalanx of ghosts,
conjured from 500 BC, streaks crimson
the California sky—
the Athenian dead,
Darius the Great,
Alexander, Persian warriors, their armors cast aside, stand in line
with those who loved us,
my uncles who died in exile,
their wives alone in hospice, your dead, too,
whoever they be, stand should to shoulder with mine,
all on the same defeated side.
Glosses worn off, our smiles almost clear
the air now of centuries of mistrust. We’ve reassured the afternoon
with nods of understanding, dreamt each other
harmless, consoled with gentle dabs of moisturized touches,
and here we sit in the glow of the tired sun, silently sipping
our final drinks. As our countries brace for war my border
of white roses sways before us like a flag of truce, your gold
highlights toy with the last light, my bone-
white roots call for a touch up and I think
to myself, look how well we managed
against such heavy odds and shed no blood.
The Italian Civil State Office and the Iranian Embassy Deny Your Request for Cremation
For Amoo
For ten years now I have found
comfort in the freshness of the one droplet on your corpse,
clinging like morning dew
to your right cheek, refusing to roll. A tear
would have—that much is certain. The mortician,
a public servant of Rome, left the room
with his tired eyes, your shirt and tie
neatly stacked,
and the pressed suit. Your socks and briefs, I handed
to him on his return. On the last trip he took the bouquet
from my hand, and your shoes. I ask
myself, the cut roses, were they not crisp
the next morning? They lay stiffly on the bed =
of baby’s breath when I returned
the next morning. Stems caught
in your cuffs, they reached
with clean white faces for your chin. I saw
well enough, I spotted the single droplet
on your cheek, you see, through the grease
of fingerprints at eye level. The sweaty
plexiglass pane stretched uninterrupted
from cold stony floor
to ceiling. My love, you were
seamlessly sealed
away for good. Yes,
all is good, I tell myself, at museums too, a thermostat
regulates the ambient temperature. I tell myself,
public morgues are kept perpetually chilled,
cold and clean as holy mountains. And the high-
pressured hose—
no doubt he must have
circled you clockwise
or not, no matter, three times
to be sure, mercy raining
down hard, long
enough to pool about the drain. I swear,
the dewdrop on your face
my witness. Then the spray of baby’s breath, the roses
may rest easy. Surely, he must have
rolled you onto your side,
on the stainless-steel
trolley, an assistant,
likely a lean teenage lad had wielded
the unruly hose.
Did the stream follow the gnarled,
sinuous path through the ravine years of care had cut into
the blades of your back? I could have
assured him
they were whittled
down in love. I could have shown him where
to linger, let the water
linger over varicosed calves,
over a gentle soul.
Does his girlfriend now wear
the knotted silver ring you never
once pulled off that baby finger?
In ten days, you arrived at San Francisco
Airport, barely embalmed, bloated,
foaming, putrid in the coffin. My love, I signed
what papers they put before me.
The next morning a breeze
swept in across the bar. I watched it lean
the white sails toward starboard and lift your heavy ashes
into the air. By Angel Island I scattered after you
my armful of red
roses into blue.
***
Author photo courtesy of author
