Remembering the Monastery
Between the damaged roof
and the walnut tree
slightly to the right, I
watched Venus appear
using a celestial method
long discovered
by astronomers who
registered astral details
as we, scribes,
illuminated manuscripts
in the dim light of the
scriptorium.
Those days were sacred,
when a robin
sitting on the window
sill to preen its tail
caught the brothers’
attention and they
lifted their heads from
smooth parchment,
interrupted grinding
lapis for a minute
to smile at birds’ ease
to reach heaven.
Today the empty monastery
stands silent,
stone walls crumbled,
beehives destroyed,
all bees dying in
clusters from pesticides,
its orchard burned years
ago, the pigsty
covered with ivy, only a
single walnut tree
stands by the wooden door
cracked by sun,
which, like me, was once
new and strong.
In those clear mornings
nothing was futile,
the bundles we carried
were not burdens
but a fair exchange for
the gifts received,
silence, blue skies,
tolling bells falling
like rain in May when it
was most needed.
The roads leading to that
door were infinite
and no wind blowing over
the hills stopped
a pilgrim seeking the
solace of an inner
contact with Andromeda,
Cassiopeia, or
their own soul, from
getting their reward.
In another life, eons
ago, I must have been
one of those monks
waiting for the Beloved,
leaning on the walnut
tree, closed eyes focused
on the heart chakra
counting each breath,
which like heartbeats,
connected to my soul.
I remember an eagle
resting on that same tree
tried to tell me a secret,
but I didn’t listen.
Letter to My Iranian Lover
In the old days, voices
connected by wire
Now waves carry them
unbounded
To our palms, no strings
attached
Floating just like our
lives
In a limbo of our doing.
I think of seagulls’ long
calls
Waiting for the sun to
warm
Tail and wing to fly away
Early in the morning.
You recognize the
behavior.
I picture you as a
tolling bell
Calling the faithful to
Mass
More than the muezzin of
youth
Forgotten so
effortlessly.
Move away, watch
structures crumble
Under foreign pressures,
Non halal food, reshaped
ideology,
Those openly inviting
women
Exactly like open face
sandwiches
At Grenouille’s near the
Sacré Coeur.
Yesterday I visited your
mother
Old now, opaque film
interferes
With her field of vision,
a common experience.
My heart flares up like
fireworks knowing
I may be the one weeping
when she dies.
I won’t join you in
Paris,
You’ll never return to
our blue beaches,
The Madrassa, Ibrahim’s
workshops.
Nor walk by fruit stalls
showing their colors,
The one thing you have
not shown me.
Remembering Paris
We walk arm on arm,
rain splatters on slate
rooftops.
You say, I love you.
Everything stops
rain, moon, the wind
even.
I open my mouth
to lick what I can.
It won’t last
two more days of sun
over the sidewalk
and everything will dry