I don’t even read poems
that are about immigrants
exile
distance
foreigners
the displaced
I don’t read them because
they remind me
that I’m an immigrant
an exile
distant
a foreigner
displaced
I’m not here nor there
As you know
I carry my home on my skin
I see my family on my phone
I go in search of tastes that I grew up with
in the ‘exotic’ part of town
This town: London
Previously: Toronto
But who cares where?
None of it is Tehran
I don’t read such poems
There’s too many
There’s so many stories
of the same alienation
isolation
annihilation of identity
Some who have known it
are teaching classes such as:
“Exilic Literature”
Or writing essays titled
“The Media of Diasporic Nations”
Or attending lectures called
“Ethnic and Multinational Studies”
They write papers
with footnotes full of references
to those who were here before
They take solace
in knowing that Nabokov, Kafka, and Conrad
were all immigrants
They say Napoleon was exiled
Even Khomeini, started a whole revolution from Paris
They write and rebuke
publish and retrieve
they sing about it
dance to it
protest
and persist
They are me:
This morning when my playmate
my cousin who I used to play tag with
used to chase snakes with
used to go shop with
used to make trenches with
used to talk about boys with
My cousin, who I haven’t seen in 9 years
said he’ll miss my wedding
“Such is my luck” he said
And isn’t all just luck?
Because he was born in Iran
and the French embassy decided
they can’t trust that he will go back home
As if anyone
would ever leave home
if they didn’t have to.
t.a
May 2018