 Pilgrimage from America to Iran
By Roger Sedarat
February 28, 2002
The Iranian
Your heart is a sour cherry in rice;
steam surrounds you, moist white
like a cumulus cloud
hiding a jagged pinnacle. A spot
of sun comes bitter on the eyes;
I am having lunch in a village
with my grandfather; my squinting
cuts the Zargos to a strip the size
of a blade of saffron. All the while
the thought of you back in Texas
sticks to me here, as I bite
into tadeq, the front of my head
smarting from seeing you in your red
dress, without a chador, kissing me
goodbye. More than puckered lips,
I miss the twisted strands of your hair,
the way you'd stand over me in bed
like an Iranian Rupunzel before leaving
for work. Woman of my two countries,
I could whirl on one perfumed spiral
up this mountain like a dervish, my head
pounding with Zarathustrian thunder,
your tears dancing on my sunburned face
like lines of Khyaam read on a train.
With you here heat and bearded soldiers
are no longer oppressive. Near the apex
I open my eyes and am surrounded,
like a pilgrim, by untouched snow.
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