my mother teaches me how to make khoresh-e karafs over Facetime

for the dissonance of my heritage // for the fact that I was too hungry // for the consternation in your face when you saw the simmering celery, lime green instead of forest // for every name you have for me I am composting the congealed rice // for all of this I am letting the produce grow white fuzz // I will not attempt to make you proud again // a generation too late to hear the secrets of a three-hour stew // let it all become a charred heap // the celery and I, we have never been the right shade // I would have told you if you could take a shortcut, look at that, it’s not salvageable // good, that makes two of us // saffronic aromas wander my apartment for nobody // nobody here to show me the difference between standards and stereotypes // the man at the persian grocery store switched to english for me // and I said khaylee mamnoon // I said lozhem neest // I said it doesn’t matter what you speak to me because there is no language in which I can respond