Where I’m From

The land was barren, the sky was black

and I hated everything about it –

or so everyone expects, when they hear I’m from Iran.

I’m sorry to disappoint, as I only ever aim to please,

so here I give a complete account of where I’m from,

good and bad,

to appease.

I am from a dry desert at best and hot-as-hell at worst,

with a charming seasonality that goes from hot, to hot and wet,

then hot and dry, and ends with pyretic.

I’m from amber tea swimming with leaves

served in tea-cups stratified in tawny, ocher and ochre,

the citrus cloud of earl grey bedewing my nose

as Grandma taught me the ancient art of tea-leaf reading.

I am from endless family gatherings,

one week at my house and next at yours

everyone competing for the dinner table that groans loudest

under the most

sumac coated kabobs nestled in a hill of saffron-tinted rice,

green aash overflowing with reshteh noodles,

and fesenjan permeating the air with the sweet-sour smell

of pomegranate-drenched chicken and walnut sauce.

I’m from once a year spring gardens

with morning lilies and honeysuckles creeping up the walls,

petunias gently curtaining the ground,

and sunflowers that grow so tall,

they throw a shade that can tell the time.

I’m from conversations filled with taarof:

politeness judged by how many times you say

please, thank you, oh no I don’t need anything

(at least three times).

I am from rain that sometimes smells of rosewater during garden season,

usually stinks like tar fresh off the oil rigs

but always floods the streets into little rivers,

and makes cars water dance.

Most of all, I am from teddy-bears that croon you are my sunshine,

Barbie armies hidden under tables,

soupy remnants of sun-warmed bastani

that I shared with no one,

and jam-packed birthday parties

where everyone from my mom’s side, dad’s side,

my friends, and my sister’s friends were invited –

there were many presents.