The Forbidden: Poems from Iran and its Exiles

My Hands Tremble Yet Again—A Soliloquy

132 My Hands Tremble Yet Again—A Soliloquy Sheida Mohammadi When the sky pulls its coat tight over its head, and the rain keeps nagging, and my pink doll misses the sun . . . I become weary of you. When the teacup on the table is a crow staring at me my throat begins to taste like caw caw. Black-beaked clock until dawn black-beaked clock till dawn Clock . . . The telephone goes mad with silence, and I, go blue with you. Aromas quit the house. Happiness ditches me. And the dirty laundry keeps spinning, spinning . . . My mother’s silver spoons drift and dash in the kitchen. Unironed shirts lounge over cactus trees. I put on your dirty socks and waltz with your black striped pants. The house spins around this washing machine, round my head. Dirty dishes play games on the kitchen floor. I yell at the flower pots and blow out the candles. Happy birthday to me! 133 I bang on the typewriter and am drenched in your hands’ dried up sweat. I change the TV channel to coax a yawn into my swollen lids. I hate the pink nail polish bottle I found on the piano. Black-beaked clock until dawn Black-beaked clock till dawn clock . . . . Now the sycamore’s yellow bluffs and highway 118 . . . don’t pass me by. Strawberries, like your expressions of love, make me want to barf. This month, that month, I come to hate you. I hate you. Translated by Sholeh Wolpé ...