by Leila Farjami
I
Would you like
to own a broken heart?
Do you have any use
for one?
I’ll give you mine for free.
II
I have a fatal—
black-haired,
immigrant-status,
countryless,
head-in-the-clouds,
awful-daughter, bad-sister,
nagging-wife, bitter-hermit,
wild-witch, human-imposter—
condition.
III
I am all pain.
This pain is
the eternal ash tree
outside my window
that rehearses dying
each winter,
clings to whatever remains,
consumes time’s charity
and my awe, breath, tears,
turns this fleeting earth
into her earned dominion
IV
The broken heart,
the placeless woman,
the torn kite
that no longer soars,
the pine’s pointed crown
that pierces the sky barrier
to meet some God:
all hushed elegy,
spent soul,
starved body.
Let it be.
V
Somewhere,
a young goat sprints
through the meadow,
unafraid of getting lost
among the little bluestems
and butterfly weeds,
bleats praise
to the rainbow streaks
of ripening dawn.
Village women
beat the dust off
their frayed rugs
with long broom handles,
then carry them
to the nearby river—
a new year’s baptism.
VI
Unleashed by the breeze,
the dandelion’s plumed seeds
anchor their white puffs
to the air,
sail like easy, dallying ghosts
toward an unknown
birthing.
They have mastered surrender.
Their devotion
sustains me.