1
As if on a sight-seeing tour, my father
drives me to the new cemetery of Tehran.
We approach a veranda with mosaic arches.
He points to our family name embedded in tiles:
Resting Place for the family of Engineer Ali Kazemi
From the veranda, we enter a bright spacious room,
whitewalls, cement floor. Through the window
I see the blazing sun and the golden land.
Cool, peaceful, but why is he so cheerful?
When I visit his lone grave, a couch, a table
and curtains have been added. With a tray
of tea and almond cookies, it would feel
like a living room, my father resting quiet.
2
He is not alone for long. Requests for burial
arrive one after the other. First, a poor distant
relative. Then one of my father’s brothers
who had little to do with us. Then, other brothers,
sisters. Then, their spouses.
An in-law claims her mother was like a sister
to mine, to be buried beside mine.
I hold my tongue. Grave stones multiply.
A cousin says: There is still room on the veranda.
3
When time comes to bury my mother, the deed
is lost, burial not allowed. Eventually
permission comes with a price and a warning:
This is the last person you can bury here.
Her grave lies in a row with others,
all rows occupied, window broken, couch
gone. I feel encroached by uninvited
guests as if past misdeeds were embedded
in stones, ghosts rising at will.
Father, is this the resting place you imagined?
The desert around seems more peaceful.