Sophia-- dazed and confused--a thin little thing with a light brown bob floating just below her ears, thin and delicate. (Her eyes great silver marbles.) She questioned all that shifted and twisted around her and often collected dead mice floating atop the water's green surface. She combed dry their damp, knotted fur before placing their plump bodies inside plastic bags where they stared at her with empty, expressionless eyes. Sophia walked into the house with a dirt-smeared forehead, tugging along a peculiar smell.

When blood roses swirl down the toilet
I know the time has come
to banish Mickey Mouse
and reel in textbooks
heavier than Cinderella’s pumpkin coach.
Some nights
I hear them whispering my name.
Desperate for entry,
their gentle scratches yank me
backward
a thousand years.
As always,
I am left abandoned.
Flattened tears
in a pyramid shape
form that familiar face.

Yes, you are Well-Rounded...

Yes, you are well-rounded.
Like tumble-weed, cess-pools
and other pleasant things.
Like Ghangis-Khan’s
fleshy bum,
the ruthless summer sun,
and my mother even after her one-week
diet.

The World is a Shell---Deh Bala, Iran

photos by Laila Riazi

Those days we leapt over brick walls and into secret gardens, stealing glances behind our shoulders to make certain that no one watched. Those days shower water hissed and spat unto the blue tiles, blowing hot air into our faces. We sighed because the world was carefree. It was our reality. One day the stars will shiver cold while the night coyote purrs beside the lemon tree as I swallow your sickness and take it within me to grow like a flower, damp. Remember the housemaid, bloated like rotting fruit, scraggly hairs dusted her chin and she looked at us with so much love. We gazed from atop the flat rooftop and threw unripe apples, our fruity ammunition, from above. The world is a shell, but [honey] it’s always been hell, and I’m writing (this) to you with love.

A Summertime Melody--Shiraz, Iran

photo by Laila Riazi

Reza sits cross-legged on a coarse Persian rug as the brightly clad city girls sticky their chins with watermelon juice. With sight of the santoor player’s handsome face, they pinch their palms to suppress laughter. How to suppress the birth of a blush deeper a red than the stripes on his shirt? Reza kisses the santoor’s keys with delicate fingers and the music purrs, twisting awake underneath honey-slivers of afternoon light. He sighs, thinking of how the girls must concentrate more on his black-marble-eyes than on the mellifluous sound pouring from the ancient instrument before him. Reza’s bare toes wiggle with the rising melody, and the city girls turn their heads away, biting their lips until they bleed.

The Village in the Mountains--Deh Bala, Iran

photos by Laila Riazi

This juxtaposition of a flea-freckled donkey and his owner’s fitted suit might motivate us to modify our perception of an elderly gardener residing beside the gentle slopes of a mountain range.

One sleepy village afternoon, when full stomachs inspired the idea of lazy sprawls beneath the walnut tree, a donkey’s high-pitched groans shattered the fragile silence. Suddenly, bitter curses and slamming doors diluted the soft magic as Mostafah emerged from the knotted branches of a fig tree, swatting away fleas which swirled around his beloved’s quivering tail. Though he rides a donkey and rarely sits in chairs, Mostafah always arrives wearing a tailored suit lighter than the paper clouds above. As he smiles up at the sun, Mostafah’s eyes twinkle silver while the hairs dotting his chin flash bright white.

Once Upon a Time...

...The inquisitive shoe stomped through cities and plodded across parks, stepped into subways and paraded out of planes. Insanely curious, the inquisitive shoe questioned and observed, evaluated and admired, splattering the stuff of its many journeys unto this blog!