Illustration by Tomiris Tatisheva
baba
I thought your death
easy
your voice rising
like an ancient cypress tree
eighteen centimeters a day
towards our friday God
eager to pluck you
for His April buffet
and though you protested
through the log of lungs
the brick of ribs
that the wooden tips of your fingers
would not burn
within a spring night
you were so gentle
in your surrender
that your cries
would not disturb
a sleeping angel
and here
I tremble
that I will lack your grace
my last hour
gritted and gnarled
robed in rage and stinking
of sour lament
unworthy of being called
your daughter
O Azrael:
embrace me
with your living spirit
and pour your fiery mercy
over me
may my end be of
his same lattice of pearls
white calluses of courage
rattling within the heart of a tulip
the saga of my final sigh rising
past the calm incense of my tongue
the cool smoke of teeth
until it is sweeter
than the echo of honey
on the breath of
a hummingbird
Lida (BC'23 she/her/hers) is a psychology and education major from Houston, Texas. Writing poetry is a way for her to connect with her Iranian culture and explore new creative boundaries in both Persian and English.