In Seven Bowls - On The Year 1389

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.