Soodabeh Saiednia

Until the Blood Dries…

What is there to do?

It takes time until

the blood dries


We shall wash our hands

with the soap of ignorance

We shall wear deep dark

spectacles to leave the bodies

behind our memories


In the sun of social judgment,

no one is going to ask us

why we killed the bodies

in the freezing weather of



Had we been nervous about

slashing the bodies by our

machete of indifference



I owe you an apology

I didn't steal

I only borrowed your tongue

to make my crafts

I'm afraid, mine is too odd to make sense


Instead, I promise to return

a mixed emotional poem,

a brown hybrid of black and white cauldrons,

in which all your words are float in a panic stew


A poem, in which kids drop their slippers

and run on the landmines that no longer hide

beneath the hot, barren soil

The soil that is no longer cultivated


A poem, in which adults throw up,

and whimper of wandering in a hopeless boat

climbing and stepping on each other’s shoulders


and during the time I am searching for

the correct plural form of corpus,

they’ve already stacked corpora of withered bodies


and while I am wondering if I unify the number of lines

in all stanzas, they’ve lost a number of their siblings and kids

I think I owe an apology to them and to myself


To my ancestors who lived in Cyrus the great’s Empire

and already carved human rights on rocks

Who never expected their offspring including me

to translate it from other languages to the mother tongue. 



A day to forget

I squeezed your heart and it was finally in my fist. I felt how much it was cold and indifferent. I sensed a stone in it, so I brought out the hard part. Suddenly, blood splashed all over my dress. Tomorrow, I will have delicious sour cherry jam for breakfast!

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