It’s February 1991, and I can’t tell you where the Middle East is on a map, or why it’s called the Middle East. But my family eats Syrian bread with every meal (I can’t tell you the difference between Syrian bread and pita, but I know they’re not the same).
"My father says he's sorry about the noise, but he wants you to know that we wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for 1953 and the American overthrow of Iran's democracy."
I can’t recall a single time that my father has told me about his journey through the mountains . . . It was just something that I picked up, some truth that I have always carried.
I started to feel drowsy from the post-iftar food coma, the still air in the room, and the melancholic rhythm of the preacher’s recitation. I tried reading the Farsi subtitles to stay focused, but my eyes were tearing yawn after yawn.
Before I loved you, the figs were still in season. / My body was a lone fig swollen like summer. / My body was a lonely fig swollen like summer, / In every dream as bottomless as shame.