Katayoon Rizkharati

When A Man Cheats On A Woman

When a man cheats on a woman,
It means they haven’t exchanged letters for long
Or have hidden the truth at the bottom of honey jar
So any time they take off a layer by knife
Their hands get so sticky
That they give up the jar altogether.

When a man cheats on a woman,
The man has long played at being weak
And then, the old Mrs Anderson
While looking for the dental floss
Finds him by the jar of honey.

The woman finds out about this
When she is running on treadmill at 9 km/h
Now she is running to warn Mrs Anderson.

When a man cheats on a woman,
It doesn’t mean that he is no longer in love.
The man is in Prague
The woman in Tehran
Multiple earthquakes have occurred between them.

Many have survived,
Many got lost,
But the tongue is still licking away the corrosions
To reveal the depth of the dent.

When a woman finds out about the cheating,
She sleeps on white marble for quite a while
And asks around for cyanide capsule.
She then runs into old Mr. Anderson
Who chain-smokes, despite the warnings by her wife
And is inflicted by pneumonia
Due to long sleeps on the white marble.

When a man cheats on a woman
He should take the window out of its frame
Before the sunrise.

(translated from Persian into English by Amir Ahmadi Aryan)

Lucia

You stole my role Lucia
You stole my prince
What is this stab of pain in your heart?
I jab the knife in my tongue.

My recuperation will take long
So you have time to practice more before the performance night.
You’re already up on their hands,
Don’t you hear them?
Lucia…Lucia…

You have the opportunity to be professional
To be mean.
Don’t complain about the sores in your mouth
You got them from the kisses.

I am going to pull the tongue out
But to be honest with you
I don’t know when I expelled that cloth rabbits out of the room
Or signed the letter sent by the court
Or became a widow.

But he turned up before all that
The prince, I mean.
We were glued to each other, Lucia
Like spiders stuck in each other’s web
We kept crouching over the books
Got scholarships
Honorary PhDs
And it didn’t let me accompany it to the airport
The spider I mean, Lucia.

Did you set a trap for it,
Or did it hit on you from its slime?
It must’ve invited you to dance
You must’ve kept silent when its phone kept ringing.
Don’t let it eat away at your soul, Lucia.

War is what it is
You have to have your bags packed all the time
You don’t know where you’d be tomorrow.

He sometimes slips through the gaps on the sofa
And Spreads his papers.
He must have told you about Siahkal
Or the persistence of a woman in teeming streets of Tehran.

Lucia! You little blonde thief!
Don’t rummage through his niche
That’s where he goes often
To float on the lingering memories
With the victims of Khavaran,
Siahkal jungle,
Is he still floating towards Azadi square?

I can’t see myself,
It looks as if I’m shot
Or hit in the face by a tear gas grenade.

I’m not pestering you Lucia,
But please keep your bike away from his bike
Lean it on a cement wall
Your love I mean, Lucia.

Take care of its brake and chain
Your bike I mean.

You can’t imagine how I turn the knife in my mouth.
The palate is leaking
As if my teeth are getting tarred
Red tar.

My brain is bleeding Lucia
And my words are all crimson
Those little victims dreaming of your green eyes.

Don’t worry Lucia
I am nowhere
And I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere
Just my tongue doesn’t stop bleeding.

(translated from Persian into English by Amir Ahmadi Aryan)

A Veil That Is Not On My Face

How can I get up with a face that isn’t mine?
The lamp shines pointlessly in my veins
The teeth have blocked the throat
The history is placed on my liver,
And sadness has cast a shadow over my face like a Mexican hat.

How can I walk with a body that isn’t mine?
The legs pay the urban taxes respectively
A war has broken out between desire and fear
The corridor is swallowed by darkness.

The cage plays slide game with its bars
As the sky reaches the ground,
How can I vomit it when the stomach isn’t mine?

The confession began when the drops fall
Confession to overconsumption of sorrow
And locking out
The body that isn’t mine.

Pebbles rain from the clock
The lungs are cloudy in part
With scattered rain on heights.
The weather forecast indicates that passing through the body
Puts you at risk.

I pay taxes for nightmares that aren’t mine.
Teeth have blocked the throat
I place philosophy on the liver with stretcher.

The impossible refuses to analyze the neck.
The moths stay in veins
I don’t own my look at this hour.

I dive to catch the ball
Before it hits the net that isn’t mine.

You, dead bride, trailing the tail of your dress through the corridors,
When a marriage is sealed in the heaven
How could it be registered on earth?

The body is passed around
The body ascends
The body flutters
The body cracks
The body breaks itself
How could the body be born through a hole that isn’t mine?

My throat is clogged with fog.
The pigeon nest is filled with pebbles deep down.
The pigeon has laid egg on the phone book.

I call the ministry of transportation,
I call the weather forecast institute
Before the marriage is sealed in the heavens.
The numbers fall on heights that aren’t mine.

The wind blows in vain
I take off the veil in vain,
I shouldn’t expose myself to the world after exiting the womb.
The road takes its toll.

How can I cry for myself
For you
With eyes that aren’t mine?

(translated from Persian into English by Amir Ahmadi Aryan)

Hair Falls In Silence

The mirror ran between us
And as it distanced itself from the station
Collapsed on the railroads.

Memory went as far as eternity
And the cube swallowed the darkness.
It swallowed the railroads
And the bag opened up its mouth of striped shirts
Along with a shawl whose fluff are spread on the trees
To the other side of the world.

Snow was the continuation of silence
That trailed the clouds parallel to the train
Parallel to railroads made of veins.
The fog stopped the motion with its palm.

Was it salt or mercury
Dancing on the silver spoon?

The moment of dissolution
Never returned to the mirror.
I knelt before that part of memory
And fruit slices
slipped into the bowl with cream and lemon juice.

We made love on the edges of wooden cupboards
On the edges of railroads
And that look
Was the last apple between cream and suger.

The blusher
Is a soldier standing with its smeared spots before the mirror
And comb
Is a fortress to jail the hair.

Will I ever capture the past again?
Will it fertilize the follicles?
The hair falls in silence
And the gramophone revolves with the rhythm of absence.
You go through my fingers
Searching the light that recedes into the lamp.

Which one of us broke that promise?
The eyes shed mercury behind the door
The knob sheds mercury when it’s turned.

Mercury boils in electric kettle
When you open up the melon.
Mercury drips on the cupboards
On the railroads.

Close the fridge door,
Close the eternity
And don’t call the woman who became a saint in front of the fireplace
With that accent.

I seek refuge in that white shirt
Whose trail goes all the way to another continent.

I stand between the statue and the mirror,
And a mask is the last resort for facing yourself
Among the objects
Striped shirts
And the shawl whose fluff sits on trees
To the other end of the world.

(translated from Persian into English by Amir Ahmadi Aryan)