Dead,
Of course
Don’t suspect
A look at her skin
Spread to her cheek
Whites, greens and blue
Not for me; she’s the same
I touch her as before, hand to lip
In her flesh I deep-in, bite with teeth
Taste has changed, as color; I’m munching
Long ago I bought her. “Keep her cool.” I was told.
To have her forever, sheepishly I listened and followed.
I took care, when alive, looking meant adding to my appetite.
But she died. I grieved. And I whined. “Won’t allow her to waste, ”
I shouted. In toaster I warmed her. In plate I served her. Bite and bite
I ate her with coffee. Not same look, not same taste but she was as she was
Barbari, kind of bread that we buy is album of childhood and the past to remind,
I recall feta cheese, sweet tea and grapes, then folding or rolling. I miss you my Iran.
I saw death, as algae, crawling all over. But still I ate her. Doing so was mirror to Tehran.
Keep secret, two of us. That is why day by day I get fat, lazier, possibly turning to, useless junk.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
In plate I served her. Bite and bite I ate her with coffee. Not same look, not same taste but she was as she was Barbari, kind of bread that we buy is album of childhood and the past to remind, I recall feta cheese, sweet tea and grapes, then folding or rolling. I miss you my Iran. very fine poem. tony