You used to creep into my room,
I was eleven and you kept coming,
night after night, in Tehran, slid in
from inside the old radio on my desk, past
the stack of geometry homework, across
the faded Persian carpet, and thrust
into me, with rock and roll thumps.
I loved you more than bubble gum,
more than the imported bananas
street vendors sold for a fortune.
I thought you were azure, America,
and orange, like the sky, and poppies,
like mother’s new dress, and kumquats.
I dreamed of you America, I dreamed
you every single night with the ferocity
of a lost child until you became true like flesh.
And when I arrived at you, you punched
yourself into me like a laugh.
Read poetry by Sholeh Wolpé appearing in Terrain.org, as well as Terrain.org’s interview with Sholeh Wolpé.
Header photo of radio and lamp by chrisli8020, courtesy Pixabay. Photo of Sholeh Wolpé by Bonnie Perkinson.