Tehran / تهران‎

Her name grows cold on your tongue.

Saffron ice cream from street vendors

In the summertime he asks about

That love from seventy-four. You saw her

On the news. On Facebook.

On your childhood street when 

Tear gas vaulted over your doorstep.

Again. Like the second time reading her diary

Or finding her turquoise in the family armoire.

You dig for her in the slit of every Turkish coffee

But you count in English. Traitor.

Who is he to ask about her?

This is between you and the ocean.

Who taught you to hate the shape of your lips

Your tongue and your mother’s maiden

Name? Who taught you to bury such young,

Fragile things? Who forgot your summer clothes

At the Black sea? Was it they who locked your 

Childhood window and packed away

Every pistachio candy that fit in her palm?

Memories of her catch in your throat and

They call it your accent. They quote

Rumi in their poems and love the taste

Of your rosewater. She watches them drink

With Atlantic salt in her throat.

Here is the first bitter love who never wanted

You in the first place.