Tuesday, August 16, 2011

I am certain that you have forgotten me
as I sit here in the center of this fat, floppy
bed and look out of the window that looks out unto
the pregnant clouds and the thin lines
of road. I occupy the edges of your memory, now:
The distant plop
of a spoon slipping into suds.
I am not
the bubbles that jewel your arm
and fingers, up to the puckered pink
of elbow
when your search
for the slippery
is complete. I am a faintness
growing fainter

the outline of a sound

Everything leaves you, in its own way

The time will come for me to let it go--
To let it all go gently drifting down
The sad expectations and dazzling hopes
To watch them all dissolve and then fade down
The time will come for me to sigh and say
No, in fact I did not think of you today
Or the day before the day before
I’ve let you leave me slowly, but for sure.


In Yazd at my Aunt Pooran’s house I could never sleep with the mosquitoes puncturing holes into the nighttime quiet, so instead I told myself stories. All of that has left me now. My Aunt Pooran sold her house three summers ago and the mosquitoes don’t come anymore. Sometimes I wish they would. I got used to the bug spray smell and even now it welcomes back those memories, warm and soft-skinned in the light. I have learned: everyone leaves you in some way. My Aunt Pooran turned bitter after her husband died and in that way, she has left me. Still I think of her often. Especially today while standing in my room my ears quivered alive with a familiar sound: A mosquito, like a broken apostrophe, flitted noisily across the surface of the glassy air. Before, I would have fought it with my slipper. Now I barely flinch. It’s funny how the right memory can attach a quiet sweetness to even the most annoying of things. Mosquitoes: long summers at my Aunt Pooran’s house in Yazd. Now, neither the house nor the city exist. The government towed away most towns with its militia-men and guns and sacks of rotten blood. Everything leaves you, in its own way.