where the writers are
Validity of

It's always beautiful in May.
And the girls, two by two,
followed loudly in the park.

The excitement reached
its chaotic crescendo
at the sight of the boat-swans.

I don't want to write about this.
I don't want to stare
at the pictures of that lake

on Google-Earth, at the fountains,
lit high, at brightly coloured
headscarf tearaways.

I don't want to read the dry
and black and white paper
laying out the lingering fright.

But I was urged to write
about a Persian PTSD.
So, instead of an ode to Love,

I take that crowded boat
and smile just like the oarsman
oblivious to the deep calls.

They insist it's a lake, in this desert,
but you could swim it in a flash,
had you spent time in the North.

The questions, slightly changed,
are distributed again
in another fourteen days.

I check item B, my young heart,
as the doctors say, aroused,
by the post-eminent scars.

Yes. My nightmares do demand,
from the murky green depths,
all that I can ever be worth.

Another eighty five percent.
First bent out of shape, then
broken in a sea of broken jars.





photo by Measam Ahmadzadeh - Park e Shahr Lake