Maman joon grasps the sunstone,
reaching from the farmhouse gable at dawn
to ignite the sky—
the gold chord strikes.
Roosters see nothing. “You have
an American name,” she says.
“Granddaughter, don’t let them mark your eyelids
with a double X. “
My heart glistens in an emerald jar.
My eyeballs dangle from a ledge.
In the bread lands, blond men snore
upon the forgiving ground.
Time raises crops and doubts.
“Is the amethyst fugue in my mouth
merely the tired roar of a housecat,
or is it lion’s breath in the dark,” my sister
wonders, surging on
through the tangle of history
through stars and wells and the heat of Mars.
The shoebox boat rises
and falls, bobbing over waves of earth.
15 Billion Legs of Mars
Inside the river, a winter grin
undulates through shadows, breaking
from stone to stone.
Daylight grows bolder—
an old bumblebee taps at the glass.
Underneath our feet, whalesharks
suck all the glowing lights
from the sea.
As a child, I hid
in the sewing room
in fading patterns of sun
while planes rumbled
Will there be lightning?
In the time of the volcano the sky became earth,
filling with rock as ash ate the air.
The dust settled into bones and corneas
into books and notebooks and electric blood
into jars of cattails and tadpoles
and into the swamp at the end of the street
where a family of stray cats growled,
no hint of houses
in their eyes.
One afternoon in the woods, under the wet red leaves,
I found a new face for myself—
the beak of a crow. Who wants to be human?
I flew home
to the river
to the bubbling stone.
About the author:
Amee Nassrene Broumand is an Iranian-American writer from the Pacific Northwest. Homeschooled until college, she has a B.A. in English and Philosophy from Boise State University, where she tutored logic for six semesters, graduated Summa Cum Laude, and was named a Top Ten Scholar. Since then she has done this and that. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in several journals including Rivet, The Ghazal Page, Duende, and Modern Haiku. Follow her on Twitter @AmeeBroumand.