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Swirling around
in your head
coating your eyes
from seeing
and saying what needs to be said
It covers your face with a thin shield
blocking your ears from hearing
and using the words you wield
Sealing your faith
Locked up tight
without feeling to list
no words in sight
and nothing to be said
It's just the mist
swirling in your head
I can smell the ocean
the saltiness in the air
carried by the breeze
rushing through my hair.

I can see the waves
running to meet the land
as I start to walk
with my toes squishing sand.

I can hear the birds
and every flying screech
as I enjoy
my day at the beach.
Abadan was small those days
Maybe my mother doesn't remember
Dolls dream too
In her flower designed skirt
She doesn't like the war
The sky of Isfahan is not blue
Doesn't know any dolls with
blossomed eyes
I wanted my red shoes
Mom
You take the weapon this time
Since it's not the war of Jasmine's eyes
It doesn't smell as Eglantines do
Demanding heads
A shining star in his open eyes
The sky of Isfahan is not blue
The city of turquoise domes
and livid mosques
The resonance of the song of
Azan at noon through those high skies
That doesn't know my mother
You just saw them as stars
Their skies are so high for wishes to reach
The city of the livid dames is said to be beautiful...
Your laughs were beautiful those days
This city
Doesn't know my mother
Her Abadan was so small


آبادان آن موقع کوچک بود
شاید مادرم یادش نمی آمد
عروسک ها هم خواب می بینند
دامنش طرحی گل دار را دارد
جنگ را دوست ندارد
اصفهان آسمانش آبی نیست
عروسکی نمی شناسد
... که چشمانش تازه شکوفه کرده
من کفش های قرمزام را می خواستم
مامان
این بار تو سلاح دستت بگیر
که جنگ
چشمان یاسمن نیست
بوی نسترن ها را نمی دهد
باز
سر می خواهند
چشم هایش باز
ستاره ای در گوشه ی چشمش بدرخشد
اصفهان آسمانش آبی نیست
شهر گنبدهای فیروزه ای
مسجدهای کبود
پیچش اذان های ظهر در آن آسمان های بلند
مادرم را نمی شناسد
که تو آن ها را ستاره می دیدی
آسمان هاشان بلند اند
آرزوها نمی رسند
شهر گنبدهای فیروزه ای
...که می گویند زیباست
خنده های تو در آن موقع زیبا بود
این شهر
مادرم را نمی شناسد
آبادانش
خیلی کوچک بود
in my country ( Persia) war took place in 1980
and because of that my mother had forced migration
she moved to Isfahan and she lost her land ( Abadan )
i love my mother :-)
Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.
A little man sat by my bed
As I lay there full of dread
I said "Do you ever sleep?"
The sight of him just made me weep

He lifted up his little cap
Then asked me what I thought of that
I said "Why don't you go away
And not come back another day"

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK  2017.
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