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Poetry

Fairytales

 

 

Sara Bozorg
January 1, 2006
iranian.com

It's true, that I sit on this couch separated by wind and water and walls.
Fields of dirt, and garbage piled high,
rows of flowers, and old grocery bags.
A mound of flesh and thoughts. 
Separates me. From. The. Country I watch on TV.  

It is but chance, that has placed me on this side of the screen. 
Watching faces that cringe, wrinkle and rise, similar to my mother's. 
Similar to my father's, my sister's and mine. 
I know that look. Those eyes. 
I know that hair and the way their mouths move
to say the words that they are saying. 
And. Yet. I . Am. So. So. Far. Away. 
Oceans and mountains,
words that describe structures comparable to my distance. 

It is but chance, I presume, that I sit on this side of the screen. 
Typing away in letters that form less curvature on the page. 
Right to Left, instead of the opposite. 
Shoes in the house, instead of taken off at the door. 
Coffee has replaced my mother's mother's tea. 

It is but chance, that I know the curves of those faces
that are quickly scanned on TV. 
Wait, I want to yell out, to no one in particular,
let me see what is going on over there. 
Let me see the faces, and the buildings,
because sometimes I forget that they are there. 
That such a place exists. 
Sometimes I forget that Rustam is a fairytale figure,
but where he lived and fought, were not. 
Such a place exists.

And I stare at it on TV tonight. 
The mosque in the background,
as the president of the country speaks,
his mouth cradling carefully the vowels. 
I seem surprised -- that I can understand what he says. 
It carries to my ears, like the words I type,
filling fast my brain. 
Filtering fast through my memory, my mind, my senses. 
There is nothing to decode.
But my sense of watching a fairytale land
does not fade. 
This land that sometimes slips out of my thoughts. 
Though it shouldn't. 
But often has.

This land of my mother
and father and childhood stories. 
This land of boys playing soccer in the cucheh,
and girls playing in the hayott. 
Words that I forget, are not made up,
words that serve a purpose in this place I watch on TV.
In this place that screams for my attention. 
I'm glued, being pulled, what has kept me away? 

It is but chance,
that I type here tonight on this couch,
in the cold of upstate US.

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