Millet Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Millet

In old days when was child in mountains
-we grew everything and were self-sufficient
-our food and recipe
-were local for matching what we had, grew there.

I never knew rice
-neither ate Chelo-kebab
-nor most of what now is
-famously known as ours:
- "Persian Dish! "

Instead saw mother
-making food with millet, which hammered in mortar
-to remove the hard sheaths that shined, slipped away.

Fruits and fruits and more fruits
- fresh and dried, cooked
-with kernels of the nuts
-vegetables, many kinds…

We lived on the dairies
-and fat and fresh meat
-from the animals
-that we raised in our farms
-as well as eggs, chicken…

While beating millet, Mom
-dropped in piece of cloth
-to handle the millet in mortar
-and stop the shells to flying all around.

While feeding, Mother joked:
- "What you eat is cloth…"
-while it was stomach, intestine
-and the lamb's inner parts …
-that dad killed, and Mom mixed in the pot…

Now, here, and with me
-migrants are like millets
-simple and slippery, unaware
-far from their plains and deserts…