Bead 1

I sit at this kitchen table in Los Angeles and take account:
There is my childhood house becoming smoke, friends
scattered like storm-blown dandelion seeds, my mother
tongue ripped blue from my throat.

See the man I used to call husband sinking into the twin
lungs of an ice beast, a love murdered by his own pallid
hands;
see vein shades of lovers who came and went, a homeland
community in jail, my cousin’s husband graying on the
run, my school principal and his wife hanging from beryl
ropes.

          That we choose the color
          of our loss, like a blue
          sash draped across
          mourners’ black. That
          eyes follow blind
          towards the cobalt moon,
          will slant us over and
          down, crooked toward
          mud on our graves.

چشم من آبی روی من آبی موی من آبی خون من آبی فکر من آبی روح من آبی آه من آبی دست من آبی خون من آبی

جای من آبی زبان من آبی چشم من آبی روی من آبی فکر من آبی روح من آبی موی من آبی فکر من آبی روی من آبی

موی من آبی خون من آبی چشم من آبی روح من آبی آه من آبی دست من آبی موی من آبی جای من آبی زبان من آبی

چشم من آبی روی من آبی فکر من آبی روح من آبی خون من آبی روح من آبی روی من آبی موی من آبی خون من

آبی فکر من آبی چشم من آبی آه من آبی دست من آبی زبان من آبی جای من آبی موی من آبی چشم من آبی روی من

آبی فکر من آبی روح من آبی خون من آبی آه من آبی روی من آبی موی من آبی خون من آبی فکر من آبی روح من

آبی چشم من آبی دست من آبی جای من آبی زبان من آبی چشم من آبی روی من آبی فکر من آبی روح من آبی موی

من آبی خون من آبی روی من آبی چشم من آبی فکر من آبی خون من آبی موی من آبی روح من آبی آه من آبی دست

Bead 2

Loss is a
language we all
speak well,
a body moan that echoes
between ribs, the downfall
that becomes windfall.

Bead 3

Granddaddy takes me and my brothers out every Friday to
a circus filled with tigers, elephants, horses, and shirtless
men in glittering tights. There are women tinier than my
child’s body, animals bigger than my room. It is roaring
fun until the giant with four faces. My arms begin to shake.
Shivers ripple to the tips of my fingers. Granddaddy puts a
hand on my shoulder, says: It’s just a mask on his head.

            But I know better
            because anything that’s
            loved— a delicious
            granddaddy day
            in that circus in Tehran,
            sticky cotton candy melting
            its pink song into my mouth,
            my brothers, each naughty, toothy with joy—
            is always burning
            toward a future not yet
            come, fireworks in my
            brain,
            hot sparks welded to each memory.

Bead 4

A painted cardboard car
gives birth to
clown after clown.
Like lovers: the soldier, the thief, the cheater, the psycho lawyer.