I refused the wedding gown—a shroud with eyelets
for borrowed breath, sequins flickering like my mother’s
band, misplaced, dulled to moonlight, platinum
drab as rubble, deftly needled. She vowed to love
and cherish, then to drown—prone in wet sand.
Her dowry: a curler, a pack of pins, a poster
of Vivien Leigh from Gone with the Wind. No Tara
in Tehran. No soil to fist. Her mermaid’s tail
turned feet—raw, unshod, too soft for gravel. Heels
too high for a husband’s reach. Her nipples, offerings.
Her teeth, blackened by Ceylon tea. Once in a dream,
her lace dress of rhinestone rippled in sunlight—
salt domes gleaming. Then clouds roamed in. Then men.
Her wedding dress—seams ripped by their hands.