Where are you from

You ask me that,

as if it has an easy answer.

 

My eyes are from Utah, forever

viewing things as insider vs. outsider –

constantly searching for the norm.

What’s the right thing

to say, to believe, to hate,

to love, to do, to think.

 

My heart is from Iran,

clothed in memories long-worn

and thin like overwashed laundry:

soccer in the parking garage

so I could play,

your abundant boyish crush on me.

I loved you, too,

the way you enfolded

me like I had always belonged.

 

My soul is from DC, comforted

by the swampy humidity and rhythmic clacking

of trains over rails.

Tiled hallways bristling with pubescent energy,

lamenting the

economics of education.

 

But my feet are planted here –

trying to the love the West

with its snowy peaks, bountiful moss

and sunshine that hibernates from November

until April.

It’s cowboy inhabitants who

love the land and hold

each other at arm’s length.

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