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.

When Golden Mouths Speak

Tongue in my ear at the Beauty

Bar after two for one martinis at

Café Flor with Carter and Tim,

like talking to your grandfather

except with more gold in their

mouths. Shared travel stories with

Carter, we’d been to some of the same

places. I felt old, unknowingly wise.

He said he loved her in Vietnam,

loved her on the water canals near

Bangkok, loved her even in Phnom

Phen when he saw the shrine of skulls,

when he thought there was no more

love to give. She died last month,

and I was jealous of him. Losing all

that love, that empty space inside him.

Later Megan and I buy beers, the cheap ones,

dance in the center of it all hands raised

to the sky as is if pretending for

a moment we’re not looking for love,

or a tongue, or a touch to fill ourselves up on.

We buy beers, Megan and I, the cheap ones,

ask for olives because we forgot to eat.

Stomach feels like a cave, the air growls inside.

A tongue in my ear at the Beauty

Bar, direct road to the weakest of

knees, to a shoulder, an arm spinning

me around and around, feeling that

womanly way again, finding balance

even on this sticky floor.

Tongue admires things only seen

in the dark pink light of a body

heated room. My eyes, hand, the

glowing white of teeth. The only

thing we are certain of is movement.

So we dance, dance-

fill ourselves up with that.

I hope somewhere Carter feels it too.

What I Learned When The Birds Flew Away

I like you better when you’re naked, out of

suits buttoned up shirts, almost like a child,

that easy to love. But you look at me as men

do, while the curls on your chest wrap around

my fingers. I take shade off of lamps to see you better

with, put glasses on, know then nothing

is touching you but the hands of me, the hip bone

on hip bone of the thrusting us.

I like you better when you’re drunk enough to kiss

each of my eye lids, my mouth even

though people are watching. You rub the knot

of my neck, slip your cold hand across the back

of me, you keep it there as if trying to find

something to belong to.

I like you better, when you’re definite like rolling

R’s on Spanish tongues, not smelling the sweet

frosty way she does, or looking at your watch

after we’ve only just made love.

The sky is blank then, the canvas of a crippled artist,

no flock of birds- reminders of migration, movement

beyond what no longer works – what is, always is, never

better.

First Rejection Letter...Not So Bad.

Dear Shideh: 

Thank you for sending us "Go, Go Fatty" for the short fiction contest.

Although your story did not make our top 10 finalists, it came very close. We were quite impressed by the humanity in your writing, particularly in the scene with Mrs. Lou and the narrator.

Thanks for sending us your work. Best of luck placing your story elsewhere. 

Sincerely,
Jill Meyers
Editor

Zanmi Lakay

We are all aware by now of the events that have taken place in Haiti, and the hundreds and thousands of people who have been affected by this. I had the privilege of attending a yoga class, a benefit for Haiti, and met an amazing woman, Jennifer Pantaleon, who runs a non-profit organization called Zanmi Lakay. Jennifer has been going to Haiti for years now, helping street children by improving their educational and economic opportunities, as well as providing photography workshops as a means of self expression for them. Things were bad before the earthquake, and now leaving for Haiti in the next week, she's not sure which of her kids she will find when she gets there.

I know times are tough right now, but things could be a lot worse for us all, so I'm asking you to donate anything you can to the work of Zanmi Lakay (Jennifer is a volunteer, so all your donations would go strictly to the kids). Below you'll find a link to the website as well as a donor link, please let me know if you have any questions or problems with your donations. Also, if you can please forward this to your friends and family it would be greatly appreciated. Thanks so much for your time, and I'm sure we can all take a little step to make a big difference in the lives of these children.

Best,

Shideh

https://zanmilakay.donortools.com/

http://www.zanmilakay.org/

Like Your Hips Sway - A Poem For Haiti

The bones were found under the rubble,

the once swaying hip bones of yours,

the parts of you already suffering,

even before the ceilings crumbled, the

buildings collapsed into your bodies,

because there was never enough food to eat.

There is no medicine,

no room in the hospitals.

Dead bodies on the streets

lay still uncovered, even after a week

of the after shock.

Where do you put them? Where is there a

place big enough to fit all this sadness?

And here, we say Namaste and do your

Afro-Haitan dance moves with our eyes closed

on yoga mats placed two inches apart,

because there is not enough space

in this room for everyone’s love for you.

We give everything

we can, not because we know you,

but because those are your bones, your houses, 

your country. Because we want to see you dance again,

to rise from what has fallen, let your hips sway again

like the wild winds of this shaking Earth.