Poems and Translations
Poetry of Sholeh Wolpé <Back To Poems Home Page
She Forgot
Your were ten, and death was a thiefin the night under your bed.
Each night you’d fall asleep
fearing he’d slide out—
silently, a pale Dracula
in fancy black cape—
put a hand on your forehead
and you’d never again
see the goldfish in the pond,
eat pickles, crack pistachios
with your teeth, ride your bicycle
through the alley where the boy
you secretly loved always passed.
Grandmother said, if anyone
should fear death sleeping
under her bed, it should be she.
If he comes, she cooed,
point your finger to my room.
I’m ready.
Remember, if the mirror shatters,
it’s only your reflection that’s lost.
But when she became a lump of flesh,
washed and fed three times a day,
Grandmother forgot her own words—
clenched light and air, held fast
to her sheets, to the bland taste
of creamed chicken spooned into her mouth.
Though angels danced, beckoned:
Cross the creek.
her flesh withdrew,
shocked by the icy cold.
— Sholeh Wolpé
From Rooftops of Tehran (Forthcoming Jan. 2008)
