On Your Face
Cyrus Armajani
How do you turn falling on your face
into something else?
Do you get up and keep walking?
Do you turn over on your back and ponder a kite in a tree?
Do you keep your face down
describe the taste of dirt?
Turn your head to the side
listen to ants crawl?
Somebody asks him
what will you do now?
What I’ve always done.
Stand on the corner
try and feel wind on my face.
Throw rocks
watch water.
Somewhere on earth
a girl reads.
Next to her
another girl is learning to read.
School
Cyrus Armajani
Growing up waiting for the bus
learning to read
street signs
“All activity on this block is being recorded,”
teaches you.
You are not safe and
you are the reason.
Lucky
Cyrus Armajani
When at last the ducks
come flying in
I realize I am not the hunter,
rifle or trigger, finger or squeeze.
When at last the ducks
I am bent
blades of grass
underneath leaves.
To Feel
Cyrus Armajani
Laces on construction boots, the glue holding a soccer ball together, a chair just for camping in a bag made just for that chair. A clue. A call. A tiny red circle on your phone asking you to feel the hand, the pulse in her thumb who for a few hundred dollars a month stitched and may or may not have thought of the feet that would one day fill in her eyes tears are for washing out foreign bodies.