Skip to content

Poems on the Underground
  • Poems on the Underground
  • This Month’s Poems
  • Poem of the Week
  • Recordings
  • Index
  • About Us…
  • Menu

Packing for America by Marjorie Lotfi

Packing for America My Father in Tabriz , 1960 by Marjorie Lotfi He cannot take his mother in the suitcase, the smell of khorest in the air, her spice box too tall to fit. Nor will it close when he folds her sajadah into its cornered edges. He cannot bring the way she rose and blew out the candles at supper’s end, rolled the oilcloth off the carpet to mark the laying out of beds, the beginning of night. He knows the sound of the slap of her sandals across the kitchen tiles will fade. He tosses the framed photographs into the case, though not one shows her eyes; instead, she covers her mouth with her hand as taught, looks away. He considers strapping the samovar to his back like a child’s bag; a lifetime measured by pouring tea from its belly. Finally, he takes the tulip tea glass from her bedside table, winds her chador around its body, leaves the gold rim peeking out like a mouth that might tell him where to go, what is coming next.

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • WhatsApp

Imtiaz Dharker Twitter

My Tweets

George Szirtes Twitter

My Tweets

Imtiaz Dharker FB

Imtiaz Dharker FB

George Szirtes FB

George Szirtes FB
© 2025 Poems on the Underground and respective creators
A SiteOrigin Theme