Summoning Remnants of a Dark Triangle

I try to summon the photograph sitting
upright on what was once your corkboard
dresser; my cherry wood inheritance with Dr.
Mogghadam's phone number on a post-
it inside the cracked drawer.

You escaped Ayatollah Khomeini’s rule for America
and its dream, never forgetting your roots; the table
occupied with Iranian delicacies as the scent of
Pomegranate stew carried through the room. Curlers
in your hair and my father’s kiss, imprinted on
your Toasted Almond rouged cheek. Appreciations
gleaming, you found vanity in your daughter’s Israeli
warrior. Fulsome, he has yet to visit your grave or make
cell phone love to my mother in words of condolence via
careless bloke to ex-wife. Modesty remains woven into
the fabric of mother’s vestment, as your swaying power
surges through veins facing extinction in a casket
away from home- locked and buried -preventing his
Israel from intimidating your Iran.

I summon the photograph, break the holding
cell, tear the male, uphold the female.
I take out your curlers, erase his kiss, and respire
a surplus of life into your amputated memorial:

A woman who loved notwithstanding the lack of
a son’s respect. You were more of a Man than my
father, a man for lack of a better term.