The Book

The book

your mother held in her hands
and you held in yours
lies on the nightstand
beside your bed
unread.

You recite the lines she made you read,
sketching vowel and consonant
again and again,
carrying the book
through each room—
in the hush before sleep,
to school,
the playground,
the sofa where it stayed
for a week
until you could finally
put it down.

You hear her voice
each time you lift your head
and glance at the sky,
smelling the pine spores
drifting through the air
despite the bombs
bursting over Iranian schoolchildren
on the TV in the other room.

You listen to the words
itch your skin—
and remember her hand
pushing back her black hair
as she read to you,
and you recited back
to each room of your world
until the hills thinned
and the book did too.