Bullet Holes Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Bullet holes

If ever I die on distance road
And if found by unknown
My legs may raise question:
"Who is he, was he shot? "

Two holes are on sides of
My left leg, in way how
A bullet goes in, out…

But that is for one who
Knows nothing of truth.

The one on my right side
Is from my time in Isfahan,
Then, galosh was fashion,
My parents bought a pair.

None of us knew of
Allergy that I got
To rubber, plastic
If against my skin.

I limped with pain in leg
And ended with doctor,
He cut a bruise or tumour
And wrapped it and dressed
With penicillin in bandage.

I, a child, like devil
Strong and active
Flew as if feathered…

The hole with the bandage
Recovered with my games,
And bandage came halfway!

I bent and pulled it out…

Though flesh grew fast
A dimple has remained
From wearing galosh…

Second hole
Which is on the same leg
Took its shape years after
When I was in Tehran.

Then, I worked in shop of
My second brother…

He was a grocer.

He was young with pride
And somehow brutal
If the things went, happened
Against his thoughts, label.

He was not just master
But also, my keeper
As well as trainer.

And I was round twelve
And had no bicycle…

By bully?
As friend?

I got one bicycle
That belonged to other,
A neighbour, in alley.

Could not ride on saddle
So, went in and pedalled.

When I saw brother
Fell, on me bicycle
And pedal cut my leg,
And bled hung flesh.

I had to pretend
That nothing had happened
But the cut piece of meat
Remained hole, not replaced
Shall always be remained…