By: Leila Farjami
A wing,
whiter than March clouds,
a sighted star
like a new and bright eye
that has fallen to earth,
landing beside geraniums—
a galactic souvenir
I cherish as I observe the world.
Something is lost—
life that strolled all Sunday long
on the city sidewalk,
the elm tree that snapped in
last night’s storm.
Extinct seasons tell us stories
of their unadulterated dead,
of water and fire—
the recycled languages of mercy,
of revival through the body’s dread,
its throbbing pain-memory
and faded light.
And yet
a beehive of ghosts buzzes
through petals and sunlight,
offering us honey and yearning
for the next breezing spring
to wrap around our souls,
to endure the dying grass that crackles
beneath our feet
as we collide with air and decay,
touching each lucent pebble
against time,
breaking
our vow of silence.
Leila Farjami is a poet, literary translator, and psychotherapist. In addition to publishing seven poetry books in Persian, her work has appeared in Hey, I’m Alive, Nimrod Journal, Poetry Porch, and Saint Ann’s Review; was published by Tupelo Press for their 30/30 Project; and has been translated into Swedish, Arabic, Turkish, and French. Leila has appeared in poetry readings and on Persian TV and radio interviews about her poetry. She studies poetry with Rachel Kann, enjoys translating sacred poetry by Rumi into English, and has translated a comprehensive volume of Sylvia Plath’s poetry into Persian.
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