• Navid Sabet

I plant myself in yellow feet, markers on
route through no-place. Up ahead, the guilty
travellers, rehearsing sensible tales, lumber on
towards Cidro, customs officer. A proud chest,
brought to life by fitness tests, or re-runs of 24,
is bursting to serve on the frontline; te amo, USA.
Golden eagle flashes, and an orchestra of eyes
plays from inside two, led by invisible gestures,
and the rattle of handcuffs. Holding my passport,
his thumb over the emu’s neck, Cidro refracts
every error, and the battlelines unfold, darkly
into transit. So, I confess: it’s just a name, and
I’ve never even been there (because I won’t
pronounce Iran). Here, I cling to my mother’s
skin, like it’s holding in my organs, and Cidro
slides across a body. Blindly, I mop my father
from the floor – making room, the other side.