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Saeed Koushan | + Follow Poet |
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Roots Without Soil

I.

I fold my mother's silver spoon—crescent bright,
worn soft as secrets whispered through the night.
Her thumb's warm press, a tender, sacred trace,
curves like a prayer held close in time and place.
Now bitter dust swirls in plastic's cold embrace,
instant coffee falls—no homeland to retrace.

II.

The clerk repeats my name—a broken hymn,
I spell each letter till the sounds grow dim.
A lullaby that once made sorrow fade,
now splinters sharp like glass in morning shade.
Grandmother's voice dissolves without a trace—
erased by tongues that cannot hold her grace.

III.

At laundromats, I fold shirts worn and thin,
and hold the shape where father's frame has been.
Beside me, whispers soft as evening rain:
"Mi amor"—melodies that heal some pain.
I swallow embers burning in my chest,
Persian fires I'm forbidden to confess.

IV.

Here, tall trees stand—no desert wind's sharp bite,
back home, jasmine chokes in fading light.
Those roots broke concrete, shattered stone with might,
thirsting for waters lost to endless flight.
They claimed the earth, reclaimed their ancient right—
seeking the drink that made their blossoms bright.

V.

I study mathematics of my loss—
subtract the dawn prayer's shimmer and its gloss,
divide sweet dates by oceans vast and wide,
multiply silence by the tears I hide.
Yet still my dreams speak Persian—wild and free,
tongue honeyed with the taste of what could be.

VI.

My sun-dark hands plant mint in coffee cans,
where memories bloom beyond their native lands.
Green leaves unfurl like secrets I once kept,
curled tight as letters that my mother wept.
I tell the soil: "Grow fierce, defy their plans,
crack pavement wide, take root where no one stands."
A silver shoot breaks through at break of dawn—
mother's voice whispers: "My love, you are not gone."

Copyright © Saeed Koushan | Year Posted 2025

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