Waking Up in America


Secluded in Eastern Connecticut, my uncle 
hikes the woods around his house, past the barn
into the long field that leads to a pond
where we skim rocks and watch hordes of insects, 
red and gold leaves floating in lazy circles,
and a migration of clouds reflected in the surface.

He tells me to write my life,
“write about your regrets,” he urges,
but I realize he is talking about himself.

Later that night in the next room,
I hear Jack talking in his sleep
and lean my head against the wall
then fall asleep standing up,
walking backwards out of his dreams,
writing short poems with long sentences.

In the morning, I translate his stories 
from Armenian to English, sensing
remorse in the lives he re-imagines:
his childhood in Iran, the early years
as an immigrant/student in Kansas and the Bronx, 
marriage, the birth of my cousins,
and his self exile amid cold New England winter nights;
his stories crowded with chance meetings
with beautiful women, dead Persian poets,
and philosophers who blossom like flowers
then fade away like a door closing
behind a blue veil the color of the swimming pool
in the back yard, six thousand miles from Tehran.


-Originally published in The Comstock Review, 2015.