the shopkeeper’s son is handsome & he knows it he asks “Do you speak Farsi?”
i flirt in English i float in the space between us i say “No, I don’t speak Farsi”
i start stopping by the market more often some days i boldly buy ingredients
sabzi limoo bags of saffron small enough to hold what Farsi
i do know pricey & plastic-wrapped pushed to the back of my pantry
red threads i lack the confidence to transmute into gold still packaged in Farsi
most days i order at the counter & stumble in the darkness clotted beneath
my tongue it shudders in the light when i try to speak Farsi
i can name the food simmering on the steam table but i only know how to ask
to be filled in English desire simmering inside me un-foreign as Farsi
the shopkeeper likes me despite his son does too because
we talk about his school my students his girlfriend who can’t speak Farsi
white like our mothers married to our Persian fathers but mine refused
to teach me his language despite my mother’s insistence he insisted “Farsi
is a useless language” useless like a dry tongue? useless like an empty mouth?
the shopkeeper’s son saves his name in my phone in Farsi
i can’t do the same jaz comes from jasmine cleaved from an American bone
we both know what he means when he says “I can teach you a little Farsi”