The Peykan careens

lurches my stomach from one side to the other, pouring

my heart out.  My guts in zigzag in between the gray cars.

In the rear mirror frame, the driver’s eyes:

unflinching black irises at the knot my scarf’s making.

Dirt underneath his fingernails

the gear snug in his hand.  Full stop.  Traffic jam. 

Greasy hand pulls the window down.  A breath

of smoke to beat the heat

Haydeh’s tune to expand our chests, to forget

chaos, cars, and the fading lanes.  The eyes on the road

are eying each other and black irises still

at my neck.

Dusty shoes press on the gas again

he must be wearing forty-two.

Leylanaz Shajii

Teheran