The Last Rite

When the lares slither in the palace hall like the water-snakes,


When the Lord’s finger points toward us,


Let us not forget the last rite.


The violence has congealed to a Delft palate, our mouths 


The revolution yawns open like the valley, a green grave,


Where I could be a white flower, a boat,


Forests singing between my wooden bones.

by Elnaz Rezaei Ghalechi

Email: elregha@gmail.com

Hallucinations

The Map

The "world map"

Looks a lot like

The war in Iraq

When I am gone away

And you imagine me

Getting married to a Russian man

I met on the internet

Or in Somalia

Between the coconut palms

Kissing a hungry child

And "the blue mouths

Freshly buried" *

Out of your webcam

* From Pablo Neruda's "the dictators" poem