Nadia Farjami
mama flosses a photograph out of
her scrapbook’s yellowed
teeth; she pulls
me into the iranian war,
shows me the souls raked:
red autumn leaves,
the uniforms unfurled,
hushed into lint—
when
—i hold mama’s
photograph, my fingers are sticky
with mourning
dew,
but i realize that my tongue has never tasted
the colors of a bullet; my
feet have never sizzled
on bloodied turf; i
have never lived like mama,
have never dangled from an unwinding web
***
Nadia Farjami is a poet from Southern California. Her work has been recognized by The New York Times, Cathexis Northwest Press, High Shelf Press, The Esthetic Apostle, The National Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, Prometheus Dreaming, Polyphony LIT, Youth Poet Laureate, Body Without Organs Literary Journal, Marmalade Magazine, Cagibi Literary Journal, The Athena Review, and more.