Yvonne Higgins Leach
Changing Countries
MOTHER
How can I live
through another day
of waiting?
Rain falls
down the window
slowly in drops
that signal a harsh
winter ahead.
Too long alone
knitting sweaters, sipping tea,
dreaming my husband
and children
in my arms again. Faces
rise in flickering candle
light; in steam
above boiling rice: visions
of the day I leave
this place forever.
I wait for my oldest son
to deny his birthplace,
become another citizen.
And for my husband
who will also raise
a hand, white palms
shining, and pledge a new allegiance.
FATHER
I saw a woman with dark eyes
And dark hands like my wife’s
Squeeze a honeydew, then inspect
The imported Japanese pears.
Here, over-stacked oranges drop
To the floor; avocados soften
And rot underneath their bumpy skins.
In Iran, my wife buys
Sugar with ration coupons.
She dies with her country
A little every day, dreaming
Of a life with her children
In another. I wait for her.
A foreigner at 53, I learn English
In a class for refugees,
Watch my daughter study history
From a country not her own,
Wait for my sons to come home tired
From work, and think what can I do
Once I learn the language?
On these brisk fall mornings,
I walk past a cemetery
Beside an apple grove,
Think hard for a new purpose,
Think how short my history here
When my bones lie in this land.
THE FIRST SON
The streets are black currents of floating chadors,
the radio is monotonous voices of propaganda,
and the young are brainwashed into martyrdom
in that country they call home.
Tomorrow
I will ask to bear arms
for America. I will say
Yes, meaning no, meaning never,
because I do what I have to do.
As the first son I must think of the future,
sacrifice to my parent’s sacrifices,
decide on their lives here,
my sister’s life here,
And I have a wife.
Whenever I go too far back in time
to summer evenings with my family,
to the flickering neons, the clicking high heels,
the kebob-to-go shops of Pahvlavi Avenue,
I am bruised with grief.
But what makes the immigrant spirit
are dreams of a life to be,
not one dead and gone.
THE SECOND SON
Being the second son for some
Is a curse. He convinces himself
He is loved no less,
But knows if both brothers were starving
Which one would receive his mother’s food.
A blessing for me, really:
Freer of obligation,
I can still choose Iran as home
Though my family with by in America.
I cannot forget my country
When some day the borders will heal
From war and open to trade,
When the streets will stream again
In blues and yellows and oranges,
When the painter will pain more
Than just a mullah’s face,
And dancers will drown again
In the swirling phrases of Hayideh.
*Hayideh – a popular female singer in Iran
DAUGHTER
I am incomplete in this country,
without my mother, my cousins,
without strangers who know
my native tongue,
without the familiar dark eyes
and faces, like my own.
Fashion, and trends
and items on the grocery store shelves
are foreign, as are movie stars
and TV shows,
as are so many of the light eyes
and white faces.
I am here by my parent’s choice,
by their determination
“for a better life.” So each day
I learn more English words, and
become the stronghold
they need me to be.
--
Yvonne Higgins Leach earned her Bachelor of Arts in English from Washington State University and a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Poetry from Eastern Washington University. Over the years, she has been published in literary magazines and anthologies in the United States. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Blue Lake Review, Breakwater Review, Carquinez Poetry Review, Chaffin Journal, Cimarron Review, CQ (California Quarterly), The Distillery, Eureka Literary Magazine, Evansville Review, Hazmat Review, and elsewhere. Her first book will be forthcoming from WordTech Editions in June 2014.