Arioborzine Farin


Tenderness

She haunches,
her burgundy hem
delineates the sand,
the pebbles and shells
of the cellar floor.
She clutchesthe light-blue jar
with sweet and sour
courgettes: cut and bare-
bottomed in the half-dark.
The ground stirs.
As if sieved, he’s there,
turns her round. His hands
on hers, they huddle
in hot, tangy slurry.


Eta Boo (The Solitary One)

I have nothing,
not even the stars
as words -
Akhir an-Nahr,
Delta Gem,
Sheratan -

nor the sky as map,
error-prone,
yellowed,

like the glint
of the cobblestone
in my palm,

lifted
to be weighed,
splintered,

shattering
the lazurite window
of delineated

stillness: glass
as compass,
unreflecting

and pointing
into every direction,
contours

as detours,
because uncut
I have nothing.


Where It All Began

Until my eardrums
Stop beating.
Until sprayed-over keys
Stop sticking
In aluminum locks.
Until the plated aerials
Stop blowing
Like manta rays
On a tricky undercurrent.
Until my daydreams
Bubble up - reflected
With the yellow road signs
And the hot tarmac
In the scratched tailfins.
Above, between the rocks
Rustle metal coat hangers
On rubber washing lines.
Reminiscent
Of long-lost relatives
Apparently
They function
As untested lightning rods.
Please check
If we’ve reached
Broadcast level yet.
Further up,
Between the pastel balconies
Drop,
Eyes closed,
Washed-up pins and pegs
Like fuzzy threads,
Disentangling the tassels
Of neighbourly connections,
Reverting broidered rugs
To reddest flax
And what was yours
Becomes ours.
Until this name
From a house
Of impeccable tradesmen
Is changed back
To Rastagar: wanderer,
Lost one, usurer.
Until the posters
With winged table dancers
Are returned
To the silver railings
with legal disclaimers.
Until his scribbled notes
Are handed over
By my father
In email or letter.
Until stonewashed denim
And glossy lipstick
Are fashionable again:
Please check
If we’ve reached
Broadcast level yet,
I will petition
The last city captain.


Anatomy

Up the stairs in the observatory,
The rail’s slippery with lavender
Pollen and sandy rain.

She rotates in her chair,
A scrapbook on her oak desk,
Where she writes quatrain

After quatrain and tears
The red and yellow leaves
I collected from the mulberry

Bushes, chewing their black fruit.
Sometimes, she peers into the eyepiece,
Records, calculates, predicts

The measure of loss, the limits
Of gain: an instant sketch
Of a body, soft and uncertain.


Wrong Frequency

There is a lantern
In the street that shines
An alien magenta
On the underlined
And redrawn pavement,
The searching eyes
Of the dismounted horses
In the alleyways.

She’s long gone,
Her hair a tangle
Of piano strings,
Her tip-tap-toe
A dislocated echo.
You should have
Seen it coming.
It’s how she sings.

But she only drank
The whitest wine
And I was dizzy
On her demarcating
Lips, the interrupted
Scale in reverse:
Soundless black keys
And impatient hooves.