Two hundred and eighty-two days— The number of days she hummed on my back To the tune of B-flat and a black hole Fifty-seven octaves below middle C That’s where I’d like to go for a swim, In star and moonshine Somewhere between your green-apple flesh In the taste of sugar lips and grapevine That’s from where all glow descends From far away and wholly too close to see That’s from where… Read More
I love rainy days.
When I was a child, my teachers would ask the class, “What do you want to do when you grow up?”
I would tell them, “I want to be a peacemaker.”
The students would laugh.
I would return home and see the desperation in my mother’s eyes. The longing.
Even if you could get away from it, the Iran-Iraq war was always on television. Taunting us in its journey of suffering.
I want to believe that I am self-sufficient. That within my ingenious female ecosystem lies impenetrable savvy.
The kind of savvy that will propel me into a position of leadership. A position worthy of a proper title.
After all, I am a strong candidate. A formidable opponent. A listener. A learner. A friend. A skilled and self-sacrificing business woman.
All in the name of the greater good.
I’m not self-sufficient.