I give my mother’s breastless body to the grave and hope the cruel depth is kind to her, but a daughter returned late cannot have any wishes. In the distance, my turquoise town Isfahan and her new skyscrapers and freeways laugh. Guests whisper and I hear. “She’s in shock.” “Foreigners don’t cry.” “Immigrants lose their roots.” They say, but don’t know I’ve left my tears in America. “Mazloom bood,” an aunt sobs. I wonder how to translate mazloom. Underdog? Innocent? Oppressed? What is my mother tongue without my mother now? Far? si? I want to return home to my tears.
Parisa Saranj is a writer and translator whose work has appeared in various literary journals. Her most recent translation work is NASRIN, a documentary film. Find Parisa on Twitter @psaranj.