A House's Survival
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
About the Author
Nadia Farjami is a poet and high school student from Southern California. Her work has been recognized by The New York Times, The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, Polyphony LIT, The Youth Poet Laureate Competition, Hollins University, Marmalade Magazine, and more.