where the writers are
Without the same
Bita Hamidi, 1962-2013

You are smiling.
You call me in panic, Ai, Ai,
my stomach hurts!

It is summertime in Montreal.
It is a rainy November
in the tropical West Coast.

We are climbing the statue
of the lion in Shomal.
Although limping, he is alive.

You are wearing a purple
one piece suit. The climb is hard.
I can barely hear your voice.

For years I've been angry,
avoiding the phone calls
from your virile personality

taking over. With a sip of wine.
The ending was bad.
But I talked to you at last.

I could apologize for
not being there, for my lack of
healing spells to cast.

I had a certitude, alas,
that it was out of my league,
no matter what the blame.

You must have been happy,
partying with your gay friends,
one with the jet set.

I am without the same.
I hope, I pray, that in the afterlife
life does spring from Death.

As Jim Jones famously declared,
haven't met anyone that
didn't die yet.

For Bita,