where all branches of my broken tree offshooted.
In one day, I lost my entire extended family.
Leaving Mashhad, where my heart is buried.
In my sleep, every night, I visit it.
In homage, I place intensely fragrant
yellow and pink roses lingering on the tomb
of my family’s memories.
I left behind my grandfather’s mansion
where heaven itself shifted its clouds
to touch its ground.
In the four-person swing
beside droves of perennial multicolored pansies.
My grandmother making lavashak
from our plum-filled orchard.
Letting the generous sun
dehydrate a thin layer of familiar sour-sweet tastes.
In summer’s nights,
we would dance in the garden.
Nighttime watering of
Lantana flowers would release
a luscious circular musk, hugging us.
My mother, brother,
uncle Hameed, aunt Naheed, aunt Gita
and my seven cousins—
laughing under the cheerful star-filled music.
Extending our hands, elegantly flying.
While my maternal grandparents
nurtured us with their gaze.
They, the link to our invisible ancestral cord.
Thousands more stood proudly, quietly loving us,
blending in the darker edges of the night.
Seven was the year I was spewed out
onto the Atlantic shore.
Wet and suffocating, separated from my home.
My only respite—
with my mother and brother
we became reunited in my father’s arms,
our tenacious savior.
Yet, how can perfection be left behind?
Where can I retrieve the fragments of my ruptured soul?
