You are ankle-deep in water,
flowing water. The leafs overhead,
as sparse and as silvery as they are,
cast polka dots on the shimmer.
It is a river after all, even if, in summer,
only boulders of fool’s gold remain.
Such an old thing, city, Hamadan,
such a lovely day, heaven.
A weed wraps around your foot.
You shake it, but it clings, bending
down to take it off, you notice
that it is hair, rivulets dark with shine.
Upstream, other objects pass you by,
a diary, the ink bleeding far and wide
words that declare beneath the rings
intimation of abandon.
The contents accumulate,
every object you ever owned,
small things at first, a watch, a doll,
a few posters that are now lame,
soon to be overtaken by the unwell,
idleness, memories by pill, love,
horrors of monumental mistakes
of the kind that fetch your gun.
It’s a flood. You’ve opened the gate,
cars, houses, whole families lost
in their war, by boat, snakes of cars,
in the air, in the rear view mirror:
a country. Good riddance the mess,
the masses up and down streets,
foraging, desperate for a shore
in the Mediterranean.
The wind picks up, howling down
the narrow mountain passages.
Tall gas lanterns, pumped up,
and therefore hissing leaks,
topple over. It is dusk, it is time.
Time is left to thoughts.
What have you done?
Guilt is now stomping to weigh in.
You say, mumble, in defence.
You make me come to you,
for I’ve always hated dusk,
your hand! I won’t let go, I swear,
a selfish girl, a mother, thief,
fighting to the last breath,
my arm extended, my feet wet,
you’ve left me ever since thus.