Rooftops of Tehran

Telephoning a Poet

58 Telephoning a Poet Enshallah means God willing. The lines between LA and Tehran crackle. She laughs, says: They do this on purpose to make us want to hang up. She is seventy-five, can say what she wants; calls them black monsters in turbans, dark shrouds clouding the sun above Iran. Mikham soorat-eto bebinam, you say. I want to see your face. She laughs, says: Soon, soon. We will break bread in my house; glasses brimming champagne, we will dance through the streets of Tehran. Yes, yes, soon, this Nowruz, when the hyacinths bloom. You want to believe her. Enshallah, Enshallah. Boosh bezoodi dar meeyad, she says. Soon we’ll smell what’s been brewing. Enshallah means God willing. What does God have to do with any of this? 59 You want to go back—to the land you remember. They say it doesn’t exist. New Years come and go. Iran elects a president who pushes poets and women into holes. ...