Memorial Day
       

Everyone loves me. At the gate, they rush to greet me, want to know what I bring, make sure I
packed correctly, examine to see how I'm doing.

My name is as unique as the other, as useful as the Shah of Shahs, Light of Aryans.

The flag of my country isn't a white towel. It's brown and hairy with a big nose.

My family loves divorces. My father divorced twice. I've divorced my country more than once.

The light in the caves of my eyes is so precious, they've designed software to detect it.

My questions are like electrons, they know where we are, but they don't know where to take me.

My enemies care a great deal, know me well. My friends ask them about me.

Somewhere in the east, my sentence is being finished for me.

My absence is momentous. When I left Tehran, a revolution swelled in my place. When I left
Berlin, the wall came down. And when I leave tomorrow, the airports will close.

Each morning, in order not to sink, I have to bail the news out of me.

I do ablution with Old Spice.

My failures are enormous, they keep themselves busy talking up their accomplishments.

My only acolytes are surveillance cameras.

Someone's always graduating from the campus of my dreams, leaving and not coming back.

My memories are forgetful, they don't remember me.

I don't know who I am. I only see you watching.

If you open me, you'll find cypress leaves, the smell of traffic, the misquoted words of Hafez
digesting with Cheerios, dates, and naan.

Tweet

Copyright © 2020 Kaveh Bassiri All rights reserved
from 99 Names of Exile
Newfound Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission