Residues

Kajik the fortune teller owns a Persian restaurant

where the only thing on the menu is kabob.

You have to call and make sure he’s working,

that it’s not too busy, that he has time to see you.                  

I order two skewers, on lavash bread soggy with grease,

a yogurt drink with a hint of mint.

There’s a round belly under his apron, like a story hiding.

And underneath the aged circles of his eyes,

the sweetness of a six year old sucking on a candy

as if the entire Earth rested inside his warm mouth.

He doesn’t say a word to me, but brings coffee after my meal.

The dark, Turkish kind where futures leave footprints.

I drink fast as two wrinkled men play backgammon,

take half bites out of sugar cubes, sip on their tea.

“You’ve almost died twice,” Kajik says, finally sitting,

examining the designs inside the cup.

It’s an excavation of broken bones.

One of the old men snaps to a song in his head,

does a slow shimmy as he wins, knocks knocks on wood.

 “Be careful with the drinks,” he continues,

stops then, “show me your scars.”

I show him the one on my wrist,

from when I was twelve and tried to scare

my older brother by banging hard on his window,

the end of the thin, stitched line, where my vein begins.

“Stay in control or you will find bigger scars,” he adds,

then sighs like his heart is expanding with

my wrongdoings, the thought of death.

He twirls the cup in his fingers,

smiling as he finds more fossils of my future,

“You like to hurry love,” he says, “slowly, slowly.

Love is patience and you’re not there yet.

But yes, you will write something and everyone will read it,

don’t ever stop doing that.”

He takes my hand inside his own,

 “You will be fine,” he says, “ just fine.”

And even though it’s just left over

coffee in a cup, my mouth tastes bitter,

and the flies have begun to circle

the kitchen in the back, I believe him.

When I ask him why he doesn’t do this often he tells me,

“It hurts too much, seeing everything.

And one time I looked into a cup and it was empty.”

When A Color Stops Being A Color, Becomes Something Else Completely

Eighteen facing seats shining empty.

School is cancelled because men have

been hired to beat those wearing green,

to go inside dorm rooms smash computer screens

break beds turn trash bins upside down.

Where does one hide rebellion?

It was imperative to have the leader's vision, and it was

announced then that his vision is this, that he elects Ahmadinejad.

They have been told green is bad.

Green is the color of Allah-hatred.

They only take orders from their superior.

He is a man of good faith,

and so they believe him.

They are promised more money

than they make in a year.

Lunch will also be provided.

The foundations of Islam and the foundations of Shi'ism and Velayat

are such that we have accepted the Velayat. When the Velayat has an opinion,

everyone's opinion must follow, because if it's outside of this there is no place for you. You're an outsider.

In Freedom Square notebooks under protesting arms,

bandanas cover warm mouths, foreheads glisten

from the sweat of remembering. Dark eyes.

Finely tweezed eyebrows. It is a sea of green.

Over 18’s went into one container and the under 18’s into the several other containers. The number of children under the age of 18 was greater. They filled three or four containers of some 25 people in each.

Old women with inflamed ankles the size of fists,

green veils cover their roots as they march, chanting

DEATH TO THE DICTATOR!

Even some of the clerics join, white cloth around heads,

hands rising to the air as if in conversation with God.

This is not what Allah meant at all.

For illiterate people and those not able to complete their ballots, you must do

so for them and complete them accordingly (for Ahmadinejad), no matter

who their vote was intended for.

Tear gas. Batons against bones buried

underneath skin. An eye desperate to shut.

It smells green, the air, as if the lentils

have sprouted, the goldfish are swimming

freely in bowls, as if spring has finally come.

Sweets and pastries were offered and the forces were organized into two shifts.

Sidewalks are blood stained,

the air burning like someone’s ashes.

A girl has been shot.

The protestors are running

the other way.

I thought that I was continuing the path of my uncles and our martyrs. All my interest and enthusiasm: to have the integrity for martyrdom.

With chaos comes heartbreaking

slowness, loudness turning quickly into quiet.

The only thing heard,

the shaking of the fig tree leaves,

green, wild with

remembering.

*All quotes taken from- “Iran: Basij Member Describes Election Abuse” by Linda Hilsum

On Being A Kid Again

Today we took a short walk in Half Moon Bay, guided by a local friend of ours. The ocean on one side, tall trees hovering above us as we tried to spot out butterflies. I walked behind my friend and tripped her, felt like a mischievous little girl again, she got pissed and chased me around, and we laughed because it felt so good to be in the pit of nature. Our phones were in our cars, laptops far away, we had somewhere to be, yes,  but it didn't matter too much because for a moment we were children again just taking a walk, in awe of everything that surrounded us. To always see the world this way, to not forget what it was like to be a wandering child, to be free in that way seems now, even in the movement and continuous flow of the city, like the only thing to do.

Conversations With Luis

(On A Bus)

He’s riding a bus

in Ecuador and I’m

in a San Francisco bed

talking stretched out

Spanish into a computer

screen, because the last line

of his e-mail said

I still love you.

When I last saw him it was only

three days after the first, he

walked into the waves, promised

not to come out until I left.

I wanted to be the girl who

stayed, but ambition was

kicking my insides, and

mother laughed when I told

her about it over the phone.

I had things to do, a bus to catch.

I think I’m a fool,

no I know I’m a fool,

better not think about it-

maybe just be foolish

this once, sip Monday night

champange, believe

under covers that romance

didn’t die-that it’s sitting

on a rattling bus saying

my name out loud.

 (A Few Feet From The Beach)

Strange number on my phone tonight- his,

the country of him entering my home.

Outside it rains even though today

was sun packed, the park full of half naked

bodies, a girl wearing socks walking

a tight rope just to see what it felt

like to move with a sole of precision.

He’s sitting a few feet from the beach

in Salinas, where he lives with his mom

and a tio, asks me when I’m coming back.

Tomorrow I say, even though we both laugh

I start thinking of ways to be next to him again,

ways of turning life into an action –

a movement, a decision.

The porch is smooth and sleek when my neighbor

steps out shirtless because I’m speaking loud

broken Spanish. It’s too late to take it back.

Cut off  silence of the night a string of

rainbow Christmas lights even though

it’s March, and the garden is empty,

except for the little chairs kids sit on.

Go back inside, warm dry house feels

suddenly alone. Wait for strange numbers,

the country of him to become my own.

All Arrows Point Up

On the boat to Maya Bay Kitty Sak

points to the map of scars on his body,

“Tsunami,” he says, “everything turn black,”

and then he dives into the water as if he’s forgiven it.

We feed bananas to monkeys, which is easy

at first, but they want more, always more,

and by the end they’re hissing, and eventually they

become bored by us. Our lack of bananas.

Someone rolls a joint, the smell overwhelms

those who want to smoke go to the back of the boat

where everything is Rasta.

The scars are like teeth marks, except

there was no animal. Kitty Sak takes a drag,

coughs out a laugh despite his

jagged skin, “Good shit,” he says.

On Kho Phi Phi island all arrows point up,

it is the only thing that makes sense, the only way to go.

I’m enamored by the woman who runs our guest house,

we pay three dollars a night, there are no windows but I

don’t care because she tells me I’m pretty, makes

me papaya salad, crushes chili peppers into it with her

bare hands, “I find you boyfriend,” she promises me.

When the tsunami came, first the water pulled

back, in preparation, the fish scammered to shore,

and the hungry people went running into the

water, grabbing the slippery silver flesh by

the handful, thinking about how lucky they were.

How they didn’t even have to work for it.

A loud breath, everything swallowed whole,

even the elephants followed the arrows, stampeding

towards the sun, gathered those they could with their

trunks. And Kitty Sak climbed that tree, hands

gripping coconuts, waited however

long it took for everything to turn black.