a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society
within the mountains of Western Iran
at the end of a street, stands a white house
that we called Grandma’s.
In the lazy afternoon sun
geckos climbed the rough walls of her yard.
A wooden ladder lay on its side
and red geraniums saluted the sky.
Mamman bozorg sat in the open window facing the garden
grinding dried yogurt clumps with wooden sticks.
Grandpa walked into the house carrying a box of grapes
and uncles and aunts gathered around the forever-brewing samovar.
We’d be in the yard, cousins and I
dolls in hands, feet in the shallow pool.
Our images, along with a lone cloud’s, mirrored below.
It’s all we knew, that moment, that sun, those geckos, the smell of tea, the laughter of adults.
Today, there’s no Mamman bozorg or Grandpa.
Cousins have grown, my father’s dead.
All we have left of Grandma’s house is the reflection in a pool
that hasn’t seen water in years.