Saghi Ghahraman 

So we’re disappointed

Farda,

which is “tomorrow” in my new lingo

is bright in the morning,

dark towards the end

I gulp down something warm & black while waiting,

my guts puff up like a doughnut

then I take myself out

into the streets

of T.O.

down the west-end

not the end of ends, just around Royal York at Bloor

it is not the kind of Royal you want to step on, but

it has that air of a western town, clean,

with cute cuts in the corners,

things get crowded towards Jane at Bloor, and ohh,

I turn back,

how dreamy I sip coffee

in Bathurst & Bloor,

looking at those huge slices of cheese (cake),

listening to the asthmatic hum

of the western-looking beehive  

I want ’em to be in-love with Felini,

they don’t remember the name,

am I  behind in my intellect. studies?

they say, what about “Walters”,

I say thanks, only coffee.

now take me up the Young st. up, up

not up the Richmond Hill, pls.

stop before York Mills,

take me back pls.

there are bits of Dirooz,

- called “yesterday” now- ,

stuck on the crème puffs of The Little Tehran,

take me back pls.

I crave wearing red, again, at the corner of Spadina, and Queen,

over my black & bruised over-all, 

up on the walls of the city of walls I am

later, I’ll slip down 

this is a slippery town, up the walls,

what with the jerk ups, pricking down up here, up up

when it rains, and it rains bad, news-guy run shooting raincoats on me

and I tell him ey baba, emrooz rooz’e aval’e deymah ast

and I’m aware of the secret of seasons

then I go up up

I’m a doughnut, fried fresh, yesternight,

now

I go

to the dogs

Aha.   

we’ll live happily, after ever,

Aha.

The child is 18

“I can’t be with-child,” that is what I told them,

 “I am a child, I’m only 3,”

“You are 43,” they said , “besides ,you already have one,”

 “ohh..”, I said.

I took my harmonica to my lips to play him a tune of lullabies 

“no, no..” they said, “ he is a man of 18,”

oh, boy, how could I forget,  

the child is 18, I am 43, a the verge

of a cliff ready to jump off 

“doesn’t it look like his shoulders” I say,

“broad and tanned” 

hanging on, I want to hang on him,

I love him, don’t I, a son of mine, 43, I do,

remember the night you were conceived ?

the night that they entered me ..

..mother was second in line, right after my groom

they entered me one by one

ravaging every piece,.. of me    

“we were, weren’t we” ..  “the night you were conceived?”  I say, “happy..” oh, boy, I say  “me, lying flat, you, just about to happen,” oh, boyoboy 

no 

I can’t be with-child, don’t you see..

granny says “yes! no!”

mother says “yes! no!”

he says, (he, your father): “ ladies, allow me to handle this”

looking at you, conceived at that split second, mother says “yes, he does handle,

things, rather well”,

the child is 18..

I….   43..

my throat is sore..

the child is sweet..

I’ve got to fall ..down

my mind’s a jumble..

her hands with rough nails..

caressed my insides

mother is ugly.    

I am 43

the child is 18

I love him so much

aren’t his shoulders astonishing..

and the small of his back?..

even though you’re sweet, my child, don’t you see my throat is sore?

there is a wound up here

there is a wound down here..