Must I find my body in a book,

a misnomered bruise, borne like a gland

on the wrong side since they made me

cross over and out? When I was a girl,
the lithe babble of warm rain fell

through my skin, herbs from the languorous

green mountains wafted through my pores.

No one made the flowers speak. The sea
was blue, gulls’ flight script I could read.

Now through metal blinds I watch the cold
precipitate particles of light
from the gray – or is it grey? – veil
late solstice afternoon unfurls.

Words which do not become me.

For Nasrin, 1999


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