In Seven Bowls – On The Year 1389
New years smells like fire,
the canvas bottoms of our feet
almost melting from jumping
over mountains of burning coals,
the things we wanted to let go of.
Zardee-yeh man az toe,
sorkhee-yeh toe az man.
Take my dirtied yellowed year,
And bring me your fresh, new red one.
New years smells like vinegar soaked
air, like copper, garlic, the sweet, dry
fruit of the lotus tree, a pink hyacinth
flower. A child, protected by all of this –
even the fish darting into each other,
fed by me, and then again by mother –
their gold skin flickering inside our lives,
as the lentils began to sprout.
Grandfather posed in the garden
wearing a half smile, a blue suit,
while grandmother dipped her calloused
feet into the pool- handed
me a few crisp dollar bills while she
spit out what was left of the sunflower seeds.
There are photographs, and then there is a
feeling like everything in the world
can be contained in seven bowls, is as simple
as the letter “s”.
New Years smells like freshly diced
herbs, buried with mother’s bare hands
under saffron coated rice–
white fish, smoked whole, our mouths full,
thin bones tickling the backs of our throats,
preparing us for spring.