Please take this bag of scallions and make a dish that will allow you to ajab the rest of the day. The temperature feels like a trombone on a beach. We plant orchids at the feet of a revolution because we can. Grass grows on fire escapes where we drink cantaloupe beer. That’s when I considered the Armenian alphabet. The capital letters are repetitions of earlier mornings. Buying white candles while spreading a tablecloth on an upside down table. It’s kosh to entangle marbles from trees. Your brows shine like the talebi. You talk in vowels that are consistent with your knowledge of the world. Even your hair swoops like a groove. 

 

 

 

 

 

The tut farangi is straight ahead. We don’t know why we chose it, but we did. It is something we will grow into, adapt with, and embrace. It is something of a yallah. This landlocked coastland, this katani oasis. Happiness isn’t something we strive for, but it’s something we expect. Thankfully, we know how to achieve it. Zang in the early morning helps me rise. And an afternoon kesh gives me joy. The rice on the table. And don’t forget the bread. 

 

 

 

 

 

Something about this river makes me think of moz. Isn’t it sweet when the limits of the unknown are revealed to us? What is the difference between Paris and introducing yourself as snow? I want to moochin the purple room so I can write about it. We are not sure what time it is, but the waves make me feel tateel. What a remarkable picture you have on your wall. What a strong sense of urgency you bring to apples. We wrote about the river, but the river turned into the sea. And in the middle is stability, like when butterflies laugh at the wind.

These poems feature Persian words that have been incorporated in my Persian-Armenian dialect. The Persian words are transliterated and bolded within the text, and they are not used as their intended meaning (nouns are used as verbs, etc). My family is Armenian-Iranian, so these Persian words are part of our vocabulary.

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