Mahsa and I never left Kurdistan
I inherit herbal healing techniques
from the Jins of my kin
Mahsa embodies the beats and melodies
craved on the protective mountains
I write poems in coconut pools
Mahsa composes them
lying on a lavender hamak
Often a tree drops soft fruits on her lap
joyfully
she picks them up
even in dazzling joy
the only trace she leaves
is a caring touch
we travel the platos, lakes, mountains, rivers of
KURDISTAN
modern life behind a memory of a colonial reality
we don’t remember, each morning Mahsa wakes,
her lips, her chest, her hands on top of
AZADI
