I am a small part of a body

cut off from my roots. 

A pomegranate shoot 

transplanted in the soil 

of my next of kin: Los Angeles. 

Every morning 

LA’s sun jolts 

my heart to reset 

while every night 

my phantom heart 

buried in Mashhad 

awakens. 

Even if smog covers the air like steam 

and the rain forbids itself. 

Even if it’s too crowded 

too covered by asphalt,

I still want to grow 

in what is now my home.