Little Girls (by Yasamin Safarzadeh)

 

Little Girls 

On a Summer’s day–

when, slowly, the river ate at our sin,

passed the purging our pores emit

in sediments that run the river’s green–

Hiding behind the glimmer of a spider’s thread,

an epiphany hung itself down from the eaves.

The sunlight illuminates tangents from our pasts

off bodies of leaves.

And we begin to remember

forgetting to know that memories are finicky.

Today we are wantons to spectacle’s tall tales.

I start by calling air,

and ravel you in pre-pubescence.

Our eyes lock and fingers stick,

that whatever we touch

would lead us back to each other.

You are sun-kissed everglades,

and I,

the harvest moon.

There is a bigness in us,

but, we sway to different gods.

Hating each other for misunderstandings and impatience.

Today, though

we drown

Bodies floating downriver.

Blue with delirium

This day, we are close like childhood

when the color pink was lifeblood

and roller skates an identity.

Your freckles lay themselves on my face,

off your alabaster.

Pulling reminiscence from our features.

You stand in the mists of history’s empires,

both of us from some ether

            that waits for creation.

Both of us from maps

that are hand drawn,

and hold tall myths.

The two of us living today

with the lies we learned

            from after school sitcoms

            where every episode ended happily.


(c) 2013 by Yasamin Safarzadeh, all rights reserved

Yasamin Safarzadeh, born and raised in Los Angeles, California, has travelled the nation in search of diversities of American culture.  Along the way she organized multifarious art shows and collaborated with countless artists, in both developing the aforementioned and enhancing their knowledge base.

 

Ms. Safarzadeh funded her way to and from the East coast by constructing massive canvases and then live-action painting on said canvasses at multitudes of music festivals.

 

Now, back home, in Los Angeles, she is working to acquire her teaching credentials while keeping afloat in the flood of artists and hustlers that dwell in LA.

Still working to be published and performing, Yasamin has not limited the means by which she will satisfy her appetite and enthusiasm for art and for creating accessibility to the thing in her community. Her two chapbooks are available on Google books and a select poem for women’s history month is archived at the Library of Congress in Sacramento.

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G-2, 5 (by Yasamin Safarzadeh)

 

G-2, 5 

It’s like the sun on my pussy.

I lay on top of the rainbow and neon

            of a cheap Mexican wrap

The grass pokes through

            and chiggers

            will make me think the better of this

                        when I wake.

Through the course of hours

            that span the infinite

            between two ethereal moments,

                        G-2, 5 moves innumerable digits

                                    lighter than air

                        over undulations that jut beyond

                        the space of my body.

Enumeration;           

            1. pelvis

            2. the round of this stomach

            3. breastplate

            4.         But, this is what I remember unaccountably

                                    I must have been starving

            4. An immense heat pushing vulval lips.

Metaphysics to make me wet.

 

And a lunatic is watching me.

Whose remarks in conversational manner

            ligament to my body

            body, that has  likened

                        to a cloud.

I laugh a pervasive laugh

            like a salvo

            releasing the tension of affected conversation.

Then the bliss of silence

            accompanied by the rustlings of nature.

Lunatic captures this moment

            with a grainy camera phone.

I tell him to pay me a touristas fee

            for the insolence of his photograph.

So he plays a lullaby on his dobro

            eyes never leaving

            Neruda’s peaks and valleys.

 

G-2, 5 still tickles my thighs.

My muscles ripple involuntarily

            and somewhere in all this

            the dobro becomes a dream,

            the sun sets

and I awake

            alone.

(c) 2013 by Yasamin Safarzadeh, all rights reserved

Yasamin Safarzadeh, born and raised in Los Angeles, California, has travelled the nation in search of diversities of American culture.  Along the way she organized multifarious art shows and collaborated with countless artists, in both developing the aforementioned and enhancing their knowledge base.

 

Ms. Safarzadeh funded her way to and from the East coast by constructing massive canvases and then live-action painting on said canvasses at multitudes of music festivals.

Now, back home, in Los Angeles, she is working to acquire her teaching credentials while keeping afloat in the flood of artists and hustlers that dwell in LA.

Still working to be published and performing, Yasamin has not limited the means by which she will satisfy her appetite and enthusiasm for art and for creating accessibility to the thing in her community. Her two chapbooks are available on Google books and a select poem for women’s history month is archived at the Library of Congress in Sacramento.