That Kind of Sleep
Excerpt

MARVARI
THE PEARL TREE

-for Joel-

He asks if I remember them-I remember
few, I say. Leaning deep into leaves,
my uncle pinched and turned white berries
from the pearl tree in hands as old and twisted
as the branches. He rushed to where I waited,
uncurled his palm and tossed them, rolling
into linen spread on my lap. He squeezed
my fingers into his and pushed the silver point
through each fruit, tugging on the thread
until my palms were wet with juice.

I feel the grip and weight of a white necklace
soft and warm in the curve of my neck. I return
to the garden, alive again with yellow flowers
and the fresh scent of cucumbers. I am tall
enough now, but he holds my fingers back
and thrusts his own arthritic hand in leaves,
his mind fixed on a memory. One wet finger
unfolds and reveals a palmful of pearls.
He asks if I remember him.

REMEMBERING THE WEAVER

My uncle points a shriveled finger
at a weaver rocking in silk shadows,
lost in the hard smell of old clothes
and cracked wood. He asks if I know
the quiet place where fingers pluck
the strings like harpists, their blue veins
webbing like young roots, gathering
bones. Her eyes wrinkle the pattern
her hands design to knot her life

in the loom. Come girl! he said.
Come! Then he thrust me into noise,
stumbling through the woolly tufts
of red and yellow where fingers
twitched and feet dropped at multi-
colored walls. I know the dark spot
where once I crawled under strung
wood to tickle dirty toes. I hear quick
threads unravel. The children

are gone, the echo of their voices
muffled in spools, and she weaves from
somewhere under her chador, a black knot
hanging from the great loom, pulling
threads till the last strand of her name is tied
and cut. I think she knows I tickled her
once. I leave her a coin for her trouble,
then gather my uncle’s fingers to tell him
I remember only the tall shadows of looms.

GRANDMOTHER’S PRAYER

When one is accepted into the Muslim faith,
it is traditional to also choose a Muslim name.

I bent to the stone and touched my forehead
to its sharp edge. The rug smelled of must
and rain. I wondered if Grandmother watched.
She always stood against the light, a dark
glow at the morning window, her silhouette,
a black pillar at the curtain, her hand hanging
white and clean, and how could I

forget her pointing to the kabob sizzling
on the irons, and she looking to me as if
to say it was all right for me to pick the meat
from coals and taste the hot, grilled
flesh.
            I wanted to do myself some honor
and choose my own god.  There is some
honor in not believing everything they say.
There is some honor in keeping one’s name.
I lift my head from the cold beige stone,
chipped and heavy, the beads snaking
over and around the prayer rug, over
and around the stone and pray, Allah
hu Akbar, Allah hu Akbar, seeing her blink
approvingly from the light, hearing the noise
of a language foreign to our native land.

WHEN ONE HAS FILLED WITH FACE

-for Naneh Jan

Imitation is the greatest form of flattery

                                                    Porr Rou!
Grandfather said, his voice glazed gray as he
slammed close the bathroom window. Meaning
Naneh Jan was Full of Face, not me. My face
was full of my tongue, of knowing I chased her
around and around the roses, my back hooked
to her crooked shadow, my voice twisted to her
jagged noises, for hours. Dry ground pulled
water from the garden hose she held, spotting
my ankles, her toes-my face was filled
with knowing.

                                              Later my face
knew it earned her wrinkled glare, her sun-baked
finger sharpening at the knot in my shadow
as if it pointed at some now-past space we just
emptied. In the house, I swung the window open
to the upward thrust of her hands, water, face
grinning through a spray as the glass and tiles filled
with sunlit drops arching their backs from her
fingers like a thousand silver coins. Grandfather
woke from the spill inside-Porr Rou!
he said at last.

                         And led me by his hand
where I dried, where I watched the old woman’s
face fill with the noons of my absence, with silent
spaces left behind, once I went back to America.
Outside in roses, her shadow leaned to a dry future
where she would die before I returned. I watched
her stand in that kind of present, a future sharpening
the past, stood with Grandfather, shivering the years
I would carry the quiet of a window still dripping,
of water striping the tiles, her ancient form smiling,
a half-coin, behind the beveled light.

AROUSS
BRIDE

Balancing on my toes, I pushed
my arms up petticoats, squinted
at my face, round in the silver
curves of the samovar. Lili looped
buttons into a line hanging neat
and loose like strung beads.

Grandfather sat waiting with string,
netting lace around his fingers,
waited for me to come and finish
our game but dropped the string
and slapped his knees, yelling
Arouss! Arouss! Bride! Bride!

We left. He should have come
with us. Instead, he pulled my fist
as if a thread through eyes of stiff
bracelets, said, Yes, Yes, we will,
sometime, to visit, your Grandma
and I, Happy Birthday, for now.

I blew the candles cold, one wish
burnt and lost in warmth, saying,
Have to leave to America now,
can’t stay to hear you sing sad
verses, Sadi, Hafiz, Rumi,
can’t stay to pull you through

smoke of burning corn, through
sun-dried streets of bazaar
peasants. His gold still rounds
my wrist like old, half-forgotten
words, whispering Arouss, Arouss,
Arouss. And I will marry soon.