Sticky summers provide
the usual souvenirs:
Tan, crisp faces
pockets scratchy with sand
and countless heart-biting, igniting images
of boys in bookstores and in buses
stooped over novels with jagged names
lips sparkling with pricks of blood.

These darling invite lavender-pink dreams
to feed the fat vacancies between our thoughts and
tirelessly, we imagine when our paths might crash
arousing love-sparks to gallop free
so we, too, might
leap.

Soon we will experience
the slap-sting of beautiful boys
who feign interest just to prove they can
seduce us into a face-slam
with a pole,
or an ouch-slip into a ditch.
While rubbing our bruises
and brushing off wormy dirt clods,
We will glance at him, suddenly strong, a phoenix born from the ashes of heart-burn

And think:
Did the lumps in our throats betray our careless expressions?

You drive me nuts--
almonds, cashews, pecans
prickly with salt
the Planters Premium kind
that look better than they taste
and lie about the ZERO trans fat
(in the shower, I can no longer count my
toes)
You forced the pecans onto my palms.
I thought they looked like dead
Cockroaches.

My grandmother
wears her hips
clean
like cantaloupes
her breasts droop:
swelling, full-buttomed eggplants.
Her thighs are large, liquid and
smooth. But her fingers are crooked and her knees
breaking.
She leans forward to
ease my grandfather out of his seat,
grapefruit-gut and all.
He distributes
silky, slippery burps
that smell of dinner's stringy
roast beef. Sometimes, my grandmother
embraces a frown. She scoots wrinkles into her forehead
and her eyebrows meet halfway.
A moment.

Then that smile returns.
Sour cheeries.

Maman Joon

Before I left the house Ameneh swiveled in her seat and snapped at me: Maman joon, khaar hastee. Mother dear--you’re an ass. I didn’t say anything and instead left, strangely comforted by my daughter’s use of the adjective “dear.” Somehow it diluted the acidity of “ass.”
The afternoon sun in Yazd is so hot that I often feel the overwhelming urge to vomit. Of course, I do not. But I still envision it every time I catch a shimmering glimpse of the dimpled blacktop.
As usual, the hospital parking lot gushes with cars. I manage to squeeze through without tearing my monteaux on one of the broken headlights, like I did last time. I had no other choice but to endure the rest of the day with pins poking my left thigh. I returned home with a patch of raw, pink skin that oozed blood while I showered.
As I walk down the bright, white hallway I can feel my lunch heave forward in my stomach. Though I remember chewing it into a pulpy mush, the chicken takes shape, evolving into a fat, feathered mass that weighs me down. I suddenly want nothing more than to return home, so that I can turn up the air conditioner and sit on my bed with a cold glass of water wedged between my bare feet.
The patient is only six years old and her chin quivers as she speaks. The overhead lights expose sticky tear-tracks on her cheeks. She reminds me of Ameneh. I adjust my headscarf and push up my sleeves. The small girl attempts a smile but her mouth collapse into a stubborn frown.
Nurses Zahra and Zeevar have situated the young girl on the crisp wax paper. She’s wriggling and writhing like the worms I sometimes pluck with my naked fingers from the circle of hydrangeas Baba joon planted before he passed on. I always accidentally kill the worms and their blood ends up underneath my fingernails.
Now, my fingernails are clean.
The young girl is wailing and her mouth hangs open. I stroke her damp forehead and notice that for a gasping instant she stops crying. Though the moment Zahra and Zeevar pull up her skirt she starts again. I know what it must feel like, being in her position. Too many people assume that doctors only give shots, and that they never receive them. I hate sitting and waiting for the impending sting in your right leg, or the muscle-pinch in your left shoulder. Doctors get shots, too.
Three other nurses agreed to help us. We leave the little girl no choice but to remain very still, still enough so that the needle doesn’t puncture skin that it isn’t supposed to. I glance over at her and notice that in the pale blueness, her face glistening with drying tears, the little girl looks most like Ameneh. The thought drives my heart straight to my stomach where it lingers a moment before sliding down my toes. The needle is too heavy in my hand.
The procedure is finally over. The wax paper crinkles as I fold it into a neat, translucent square. The girl’s face is hidden behind her mother’s head. I imagine that they’re exchanging soft pecks on the cheek. I throw away the trash and turn to leave: My mouth feels dry and I’m craving a long sip of ice water.
My throat feels alive again. I’ve swallowed enough water to sustain the hydrangeas for at least two weeks. Before I walk to my office I notice that the little girl is leaving, with one hand pressed into her mother’s palm and the other flapping at her side. I stare at her. At that moment, she spins around and smiles.
Yesterday I discovered one of Ameneh’s diary entries in the tight space between her bed and her wall:
Maman Joon, there is a picture of us when we were much younger. You were trying to kiss my cheek but I pulled away. And the picture is just a blurry whir in the middle where our faces were supposed to meet.

There is a raspberry pie in the oven and it’s making the home smell like melted butter. There’s also a crispy-skinned chicken roasting in a creamy murmur of carrots. I’m the one stooped over my dinner plate and I’m sucking on the ice cubes and they make my insides freeze. The smell is warm, and in its warmness, nauseating. I want to eat but I can’t. The guests aren’t here yet and plus, my mom is mad at me for what I did last night. I know that she wants the smells to slip deep enough into my lungs and then she’ll stand before me and say, “There’s frozen food that will go bad if someone doesn’t eat it.” And then I’ll think of how frozen food can never “go bad,” because wouldn’t that ruin the entire purpose of it, anyway? But I know that she’s waiting for me to say that so that she could walk straight to the freezer, jerk open its bluish door and pull out the cold, pink cubes of food. So instead I continue sucking on the ice cubes and the chicken smell grows warmer against my nostrils and I’m about to explode with hunger and a vacancy that pulls me apart with a sharp, practiced delicacy.

Foolishly, I long for the days of my childhood when Hannah Montana’s mind-emptying lyrics did not pervade through the home like a sick stench, bruising the once delicate summer atmosphere, making the pasta sauce seem like pulpy, red vomit, and the lemon curd a urine goop collecting like dead dreams on the counter. I cannot convince them to poke their heads outside and take view of the warm afternoon, to observe and appreciate its slow transformation, the delicate, light-footed breezes falling away to allow for night to settle, the sun falling back like a souffle. Instead, the Internet has hooked them and so comforted they are, by its sweet-smelling breath and large, blinking eyes that they neglect their childhoods, not even turning around to wave two sloppy farewells. Foolishly, I long to change things, the longing itches my toes and the back of my neck, tugging me into a state of endless discomfort, during which I contemplate life and its meaning, such black-hole question for a young girl such as myself, but it always happens when I’m confronted with the epitome of loneliness, of emptiness--a hole-ridden Hannah Montana tune, short-lasting, awake for only the summer before it is pulled into a deep sleep. And the girls grow up. They are affected by the summer tunes without even knowing it, perhaps they wink at their startling images in the mirror, stringing together a story of love at first-glance, when a boy will be marveled by their endless, shimmering legs and their fleshy pink lips. Foolishly, I look back on days, pebbles pitched into a nearby stream, the earth’s gurgling, bubbling smells below my feet, and the luxurious bird-songs that erupted our worlds, how young and carefree--but never careless--were we.

Sweet things give me cavities. This includes, but is not at all limited to, summertime popsicles--or brightly colored sugar-water frozen into a crunchy, rectangular mass with a thin wooden stick visible beneath the neon translucence, like an ant trapped in amber. Cookies, too, for I love them. My favorite are the cubes of caramel I soften between my thumb and forefinger before popping them into my mouth and savoring the sweetness roll over my tongue. Unfortunately, these brief moments of bliss end with a visit to the dentist's office ,during which my mother's eyebrows do that intimidating dance to the middle of her forehead and form a single, black dash of disappointment. These cavities are always filled, though, and soon after the aching, nighttime reminders of their existence dissolves, I forget about them completely. His sweetness, however, forced open the costliest of cavities, and this one never disappeared.