It Is Dusk

It is dusk
And we are ready to go to the bathhouse.
I am in the garden and
By the pomegranate tree
I dress my baby doll
with her plastic swollen belly and fat fingers
that I like to chew on to make teeth marks in.
Already I can hear the mournful sound of prayer
wailing from the nearby mosque
and smell the hot dry thirsty ground
that has roasted and tanned all day
under the naked sun
now dying to drink the soft pitter-patter evening rain.
It is dusk
Persian dusk
Honey silence in the neighbourhood
Waiting for the gunfire to penetrate
and ravage the air
My grandmother waits by the door
charcoal eyes behind tulip patterned veil
arm dripping with gold
her lilac veined hand dressed in a hard ruby stone
bath bundle under her arm
I take my doll
my baby
We are ready to go to the bathhouse