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Immigration - Nadia Farjami

My mother my father the

water on tap healing the

glass jar of last night’s

pasta sauce that I didn’t

eat the little red orange

lines rimming it rubbing it stilling it

I back turn back

imagine back dare and pray Think of this pasta dish

by the sink unwashed but watered

like a persian goldfish vase

the bowl so boring that one

could kill it.

My mother my father crunching backs raising hibernating and

hunching to through america only to have a

kid who won’t eat

it

I guess it isn’t that bad black coffee

and tar there are worse things


the water down my throat is

too hot my eyebags are oozing

My dad tells me, through this

empty dish, that

he does not regret

his journey to america

my mom sometimes says

that things were easier

in iran


Sick, chills rushing through my body as if god,

She’s watching me, stepping into rooms Shouldn’t have gone in.


I must’ve loved too strong–The coffee near me is my only sense of warmth.

Heartbroken,

blown out

of my nose.

 

Nadia Farjami is a poet whose been published in The New York Times, The Athena Review, The Daily Californian, The Berkeley Fiction Review, and honored in dozens of more poetic palaces!


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