Unmaking Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Unmaking

Tomorrow he has court.
No one sees depth at all when he was little child
saw the fists in the air, voices rise for revolt
politics in his land, internal, external.

He,
(No name to defend or attack or defame,)
turned to doll in the hands and become immigrant;
land to land they crossed,
as if hay on the waves soaked; got wet
floated…

Bowie was colour
(Diwali's)
on his mind, on his face.

He became media
and climbed to the top
like fountain.

Having had forgotten all his past
different turned his tongue and passport
ancestors' birthplace he forgot
and her wise, and advice:
"The fountains fall after rising high;
turn cascades…"

He was and still is pawn of games
as is toy in child's hand…
politics and demands…

Boat lover, passengers, on surface
media wants to sell, ghostly judge; full of lies.

I talk of wave in depth
sea…ocean.