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?