a beautiful time to not dissapear.
And back then, when I didn’t know her
and women wore skirts above their knees
and walked freely on the streets of Iran,
except for the occasional ass grabbing,
grandmother didn’t cry so much.
And she didn’t have to pop
five pills to feel at peace.
Back then she wore fur coats
and pearls that slipped on her skin
as she sat cross legged
at my mother’s wedding
in a dress that made her look
as beautiful as the bride,
while she dreamt about
kissing her dentist.
She asks me if I have a boyfriend,
and then she asks me again.
And then she asks me a third time
because her mind is empty and
free of all things except this moment.
It’s a disease but it’s also
what some people call Zen.
She clings onto thoughts that seem new
and unspoken while her brain slowly shrinks.
It’s a folding upon itself,
a quiet collision of death drawn out.
First you leave the stove on,
and then your tongue
can’t catch the right words,
and the next thing you know
you’re not walking anymore
and your daughter has to spoon feed you
they way you did when she was little.
It’s a disease but its also a circle.
And you realize that life was
never really meant to be angular.
And when little children walk
past you giggling, you laugh too
because there is something in them so near
to where it is that you are going.
Grandmother looks at me and
asks me once more if I have a boyfriend.
No, I tell her again because I am certain of it,
but this time there are also tears in my eyes
and maybe she’s so empty she can feel it too.
So she drops it and tells me
that my breasts are getting too big,
and then breathes in the Santa Monica Friday
afternoon wet beach air (or just the air)
and smiles because the sun is beating
on her body and she can’t remember much-
good or bad- but she is a daylight lover, and
does not expect tomorrow to ever really come.