November 12, 2023 - Rahil Najafabadi’s “qam”

a face that won’t wipe away
the happiness of having a home.
we are hosted by our birthplace
sometimes. barred from the beds,
kitchen tables, saffron-drunken
laughs from the gardens––laying
after eating too many greengages and
sour cherries. my stomach is a pot
of sweet tea and mouthed apologies.
i know this trip to the bakery
at six in the morning is my last
time smelling the leaded gasoline
that burns my eyes and my lungs.
i want to drink rosewater, to wash away
the polluted sky of tehran from
my throat, but it’s blocked by tears
that haven’t been able to fall. the air
of silent fear, every day, under
the tunnel where the addicts live.
death in the same acre where I was
born, not every day is for the living.
my face is turning gray, thinking
of the market near my home.
the aisles smell like bleach, meat,
and some industrial soap. i want
to buy a doll-faced ice cream again
and race it melting to the apartment.
i’m living in two mirrors, but only
one of them looks back at me––
a woman whose home is a memory.