Grandfather’s face looked like a tree
and we were made of the same thing.
Me: an event
that was occurring.
Him: an event
that was going to happen.
The night then was less alone,
she held thousands of stars on her skirt.
I was as afraid of death
as I was of myself,
as I had been of a loose tooth
at the age of seven.
When Grandfather fell on his side
the citrus and cardamom were still in the air.
A bridge was an event
with two beginnings,
its back closer to God.
Time, peculiar like magic or poetry,
taught me how the seed of a cherry
can sometimes grow into a maple tree,
can be built into a bridge
with an arch high enough for someone to walk along
and pluck God right out of heaven.
– trans. by Negar Emrani and Kaveh Akbar