by Pari Sabti
Ahvaz
upon that date palm: khorma, rotab, khaarak
underneath: the abandoned subway that claws at the surface
herb-seller in a chador on the street-corner, a kilometer
away—the murderer parading the dismembered head of his child-bride
the river remembering intrusions, half-drowned children
fished out by strangers and bombs missing the bridge to glide in
community land and its towering bamboo reeds
our graveyard hiding behind the overgrowth, now
turned into the smoothed surfaces of a new, empty park
my cheated childhood, bulldozed, forever gone
the three stages of date ripeness: khaarak is yellow and firm, rotab is softening, and khorma is the fully ripened date.
nemifahmi
they sticker me an ID and lick
off my star stains. out
with my old skin, my plastic green
alien skin, out with my cancerous
constellations. you’ll naturalize me
soooo gooood I’ll forget
I was a citizen of the unnatural. pinken
like a cow’s ear. domesticated. dear
alien resident: do you renounce
the cosmos for the earth? my room
has no windows anyway. but see me
here, grazing my carpet grass
on my knees praying to star- dust, see
my alien skin and my fat alien
tongue that you nemi-
fahmi nemifahmi to hichi
nemifahmi.
Pari Sabti is a nascent MFA candidate at George Mason University. They enjoy going on walks, singing, and arguing about semantics with their sister. You can find their poem “Zardi-ye Man Az To” in Calliope Literary Journal.