Strawberries
When I
asked you, how to
say freedom in a Persian
dialect from Qom,
you laughed:
“You have
to taste the word,
in chalk, blood, bite marks,
rubber, gas,
let it drip
down, sweet fruit,
and find its place with you,
see how it
feels in the back
of big yellow taxis,
in front of
star patterns
in shattered glass.”
I took a
rosebud from
the counter case, studied in light,
how feel to
run out
with dynamite sticks and megaphones,
break car
windows, slash tires,
pour sugar down drainpipes,
give gotten
candy to onlooking children.
You said it
was the same as
strawberries
Whether I
liked them or not.
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