Uncomplaining,
Acquainted with pain,
Simple.
Always returning from the market
Wrapped in her black chador
Carrying a bundle of something
Someone needs desperately.
Always leaving quietly
All footprints erased
Except clean glasses
Washed clothes
Piles of cooked rice
And a spotless sitting room.
Her forehead imprinted
With a constant headache
That will not give in to painkillers
(Not even the American kind).
Her fingers curled permanently
Around the wooden broom
With the determination of a lonely woman
Who expects little love.
That her kids have deserted school,
That her husband is an addict
Who accuses her of plotting to poison him,
Attract little surprise.
There she goes
Day after day
Expecting little love
And sweeping the sitting room
With broad, steady strokes
Her sun burnt face
The silent city of pain
Crumpled into a distorted map.
“Might you have American vitamins?”
My daughter looks so pale!”
I have learnt over the years
Not to be without some.
She beams like a victorious queen.
“Why don’t you take a taxi home today?”
I exploit the opportunity for contact
Slipping a folded bill into her pocket
With the bottle of vitamins.
As our eyes meet
We both know
She will buy a cream cake
And walk the long way home.
Shiraz, January 4, 2001