Telephoning a Poet

Enshallah means God willing.

The lines between LA and Tehran
crackle. She laughs, says: They do this
on purpose to make us want to hang up.

She is seventy-five, can say what she wants;
calls them black monsters in turbans, dark
shrouds clouding the sun above Iran.

Mikham soorat-eto bebinam, you say.
I want to see your face.
She laughs, says: Soon, soon. We will break bread

in my house; glasses brimming champagne, we will
dance through the streets of Tehran. Yes,
yes, soon, this Nowruz, when the hyacinths bloom.

You want to believe her.
Enshallah, Enshallah.

Boosh bezoodi dar meeyad, she says. Soon
we’ll smell what’s been brewing.

Enshallah means God willing.

What does God have to do with any of this?

You want to go back—to the land
you remember. They say it doesn’t exist.

New Years come and go. Iran elects a president
who pushes poets and women into holes.

— Sholeh Wolpé
(From Rooftops of Tehran, Red Hen Press, 2008)