Ode to Lavashak
By Mehrnoosh Torbatnejad
For Nasrin
Salivation catalyst, leathery trigger
of dribble and drool, the mere sight
of your sour scarlet rattles my mouth
so uncontrollably, it rearranges my eye
sockets, shimmies my shoulders and curls
my spine, tasty sheet of tangy flesh
that summons those trips when I watched
my cousin in a carpeted kitchen, simmer plums
and albaloo till seeds and skin loosened,
stayed aloft in a strainer that passed
a salted and saccharine ruby puree,
then poured and spread in tin and melamine,
we climbed the ladder to the roof, laid
the trays to sunbake for a few days,
and then and there I peeled away
a softly congealed pulpy page, melted
mesocarp I held with both hands, the higher
the acid the more eager my palate to indulge
in the torture of splitting my tongue, I still
gnaw the corners till my stomach bloats
and teeth erode, still that puckery pleasure
of tart linen, in heaven the snack aisles
must be stocked with your variations,
unlike the second freezer in the basement
I rummage to reap leftover pieces, oh
textured taste of preservation, you were created
in memory of fresh ingredients, always better
homemade, the reason our baggage
was overweight, the only treat I pulled
from my lunch bag unashamed, every bite
a painful tribute that we could have had more
if only we had stayed
Ode to Esfand
By Mehrnoosh Torbatnejad
I was there in ’92, in the summer
when my aunt and uncle first stepped
into percussion’s staunch echoes,
strings and electric organ blaring
to soundtrack their union
and supplement the applause,
my small hands clapping too
as I tiptoed to watch my grandfather
at the entrance, holding a tray
toward them like a gift, esfand smoke
crackling and curling skyward, burning
a traditional pastime, my aunt
pinches the seeds as the young
groom tilts down his chin,
his demure smile still visible when
she encircles the space above his bowed
head, tracing a halo before releasing
the wild rue into the glowing holder—
framed in my home is a still
of this moment—since the wedding,
two fun cousins, a house across
the bakery, long commutes, more esfand
lacing the air with its charred aroma,
dead-ends, chest constriction, depletion,
esfand named for the holy immortals
swirling in every corner, emergency room,
labored retirement, esfand lending
its name to our twelfth month, two days
ago my aunt called me, said she held
the pillar in the living room until
the building stopped shaking, my uncle
still defiant goes to work, yesterday
she called me, said she huddled beneath
the dining table like she did as a child,
another report of survival, I wait
for the next one, sobbing, but you can’t
tell me esfand is merely superstition