my mother teaches me how to make khoresh-e karafs over Facetime


for the dissonance of my heritage // for the fact that I was too hungry // for the consternation in your face when you saw the simmering celery, lime green instead of forest // for every name you have for me I am composting the congealed rice // for all of this I am letting the produce grow white fuzz // I will not attempt to make you proud again // a generation too late to hear the secrets of a three-hour stew // let it all become a charred heap // the celery and I, we have never been the right shade // I would have told you if you could take a shortcut, look at that, it’s not salvageable // good, that makes two of us // saffronic aromas wander my apartment for nobody // nobody here to show me the difference between standards and stereotypes // the man at the persian grocery store switched to english for me // and I said khaylee mamnoon // I said lozhem neest // I said it doesn’t matter what you speak to me because there is no language in which I can respond

Auzin is a writer from the Pacific Northwest who strings words together because there are creations inside her which clamor to get out. She has published with Nowruz Journal, Rogue Agent Journal, and Agapanthus Collective. Her work can be found at This piece was previously published in Nowruz Journal.