I remember
Long, liquid afternoons inside my grandparents'
Shiraz home. My sisters and I
Skipped the spiral staircase, while my grandfather, small and round,
Wob-bled behind. And those slow nights of potato salad on hot bread:
I ripped out doughy middles and formed heaps on my plate. Then my grand-mother
glided past, warning me to
Feed the cats and feel the hunger
That poked their insides blue.
I am nothing
Without photos of my mother, my father
My parents
At the wedding my mother's hair curtseyed
My father still wore his hair
Proud and black and frosting-thick
With their thumbs they scooped up cake
But fed promises. Years later,
My mother
Is spinning away and
Unwinding. There are bits of her
Creased
In the laundry room, near the plastic baskets and the dirty bras,
Like mango holders. There are bits of her roaming with the house flies,
From one watermelon chunk to another.
And there are bits of her shivering in the May breeze
That smells like tulips and warm
pool water.