Move Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Move


Once I was in basement, was detained by mistake and the doubts of beard, politics and accents.
All were wrong but happened;
Like earthquake of Arg-e-Bam. Then I wrote a poem in Persian on paper smuggled by a friend
I wrote down part of the facts.
Regardless of pencil I wrote there; this is it “Rock and I are the same. Grounded we fell rolled.”
At a beach where you swim
When walking on the dune each step can tell you of books lost, and my notes and things wrong.
Worst is loss; steals thought.
Killing or being killed, spending what we have, last penny, can and will be healed in some way.
Loss never; it’s the wound.