“ چای” [Tea]

By Samah Rash

I hear the clinking

of steaming tea glasses on a

golden tray, being carried

up the stairs and to

the sun-heated rooftop

at dusk.

“ چای امد”

[The tea is here]

Crimson tea—the color of

an equatorial sunset; a bonfire’s

embers not yet extinguished.

The balmy Persian nights envelop

my shivering figure—washing me,

cleansing me; in the essence of

orange blossoms and jasmine flowers.

Turquoise fountains and starry skies,

songs of early autumn nights, which

sing with the call-to-prayer at sun-down, while

lines of poetry slip between my

grandmother’s teeth and into the breeze.

She reads my fortune aloud. It catches the

currents and floats my way. I reach

for a glass of crimson tea:

Poinsettia Red and Rugged Brown, mixed

to form the weakness of my people.

Glasses glowing

with latent inferno-light

emanating from within.

Holding it up to the indigo sky,

waves of fiery vapour melt into the air.

Ephemeral twists of smoky water paint

fleeting pictures into the dark.

My grandmother’s words sing in my ears:

"از هیچ چیز نترس"

I hold the glass beneath my nose and

gasp for a breath of my homeland’s smell

of rose water and pomegranates.

I inch the burning tea closer to my mouth,

tipping it as if to drink,

but the beauty is too intense.

Lowering the glass, I place it on the

rooftop ground, watching

it into the evening until

no more twists of smoky vapour rise

to the heavens to wish me

goodnight.