Saffron

Saffron yellow palms

hold tightly,

A brown, tiny hand.

A surgeon by day,

an immigrant always,

speaks a thick Persian accent

guttural German romancing

French,

gentle muse

Sings melodies of Hafez, Rumi, Farough Farrokzhad,

Pomegranate syrup,

luminous, ruby liquid,

quenches her thirst,

Brown hands hold a scalpel,

she is her father’s daughter.

The scalpel-a black, ink pen,

the body-a blank, white page.

Morning Glory,

write of Firoozeh brought home by Savak, the secret police,

for removing her chador again

With an irreverent, smile,

Persian eyes hypnotize,

Call it a goat,

his brown hand brushes the unclean, a dog,

sat his name-Hosein Torab,

eaten by vultures in an open

cell,

blood graffiti script on the white walls of

solitary confinement,

all for promoting Democracy,

Stories of yellow ribbons,

oak trees,

haunt my grey matter,

Pass the Turkish coffee

and baklava.

Her brown hands

hold the sun close,

shine, illuminate us all.