I’ve left parts of me back in Iran where the streets, at this moment, days before Nawrus, are alive with women haggling for goldfish and dreams, jars of wheat sprouts threaded with red ribbons, Samanoo, Senjed, I was once a poet, in another language, in another country, another self, the sky thundered, clouds parted, I was dropped, here and now, rural Oregon, so far from that narrow stream ribboning the Alborz Mountain, from the pink plum tree blossoms, spring should be spring anywhere but here there’s no Nawruz, despite the yellow daffodils, their intense colors, what do I do with the leftover memories of my childhood? Perhaps, if I was not a failed a poet, I could write about the daffodils, the spring showers, but all I want is to stroll down streets where every word bouncing against my ear drums vibrates with Farsi frequencies, where seventy million people believe the exact moment of spring equinox holds the power to shape all the moments of the year to come. In Iran, one year at the moment of equinox, I solved a math equation, another year I scribbled a poem, another year, I mumbled a prayer and this year, so far from home, in a place where no one else cares about the exact second the ribbon of last year is cut, I know exactly what I will be doing. I will sprinkle my new year with sweet thoughts of nothing and no one except you, my land, your orange blossoms, your Cyprus trees, and wonder, will I ever see you again?
Pegah Ouji is an Iranian American writer who writes in Farsi and
English. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming from
Joyland, Epiphany,
Isele Magazine, Hamilton Stone Review, Fugue, and
Takahe. She is
currently an Emerging Writer Fellow at
Smokelong Quarterly as well as a
writing and editorial fellow at
Roots, Wounds, Words. Twitter:
@oujipegah
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