by Nadia Farjami

my mother flosses

a photograph out of

her scrapbook’s

yellow teeth—

it’s her home in iran, 

an apartment with 

a barren body and 

chipping skin 

 

my mother lived in

a home where 

hazel hands

huddled under

the oozing light of an oil lamp, 

in a home where 

scarlet slivers of 

saffron snuck into

every floorboard,

in a home who survived a

war

 

she tells me 

about the war, 

about how her 

city became 

sour air and

sneaker soles

 

she tells me 

that in the narrow alleys of 

shiraz neighborhood, 

voices 

unfurled, became 

restless ghosts, took  

wind by the hand 

 

i realize that 

my mother

speaks farsi

in color:

in photographs

coated in elegies 

 

i realize that even though  

the arches of my feet have

never sizzled on bloodied turf, 

i still want to try to

speak farsi in color, 

want to try to feel

iran’s breath 

whistle in chasms 

between my bones