Hajj Jackal Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

I happened to know him more through what he sold.
The woodwork that ended in our shop was table or counter, closet and maybe front desk.
I wonder.
The buyer, my brother bought it.
“Pull out these drawers.”
He told me and I did:
“This is where he hid it.”
He reclined, his right-hand extended and deep in.
He smiled, I got it:
“This is why he is Jackal.”
Running an Opium-Den in his house was his job.
Clients or patrons sneaked in; in recline they laid down.
Their heads met in center, they all lied on their chests.
Heads merged round a Manghal, the holder of charcoal with flames, red and blue.
Vafoors or opium pipes, oval-shape china-heads, finely cooked few holes on one side.
Nicely carved wooden pipes, mythic signs had needle tied on side to undo the clogs.
Jackal was too smart; he knew right and wrong, in his way.
He was the designer of table and ordered as a safe for opium, in open yet unseen.
Drawers were three, maybe five, their contents amusing look-secret but to fool.
Hiding place was between drawers-counter-top out of sight.
I learned these in Tehran when working as a child around ten, not school.