جون (Joon)
I. جون (joon)
My grandmother offers joon as a great unfolding
as her backyard buzzes with dozens of deep-rooted
rosebushes pressing dry June with a knowing of garden
hose or the ghormeh sabzi she laces with pinto beans
and Persian limes and simmers nearly sweet, served
with tahdig she makes sweat gold
olive oil and saffron, a bowl of raw green
onions to peel back each layer of my soul.
How to say: my blood will always carry
your fingerprints?
II. جان (jâne)
My sister and I take turns rocking
a red-headed doll while murmuring baby
jâne. One suburban friend — they are all
white and cool as our bedroom walls— asks
why we’ve named the doll Johnny when, clearly
it’s a girl?
The doll's name is Carol, but we have
no languageable answer. Doesn’t everyone coo
jâne to their babies? How else will they know
they're loved?
III. جونم (joonam)
Saying joonam requires a lip
pucker, like having my uncle
as an uncle requires a recurring nightmare
in preschool and kindergarten: I sit
on a standard 90s patio chair, all white
hard plastic, pinning eyes shut as a man
unfurls fingers up-down-across my tiny body.
It tickles, but if I laugh —
he’ll kill me.
IV. جان (jân)
Sometimes my mother is silky as turkish
delights or the rising and falling miges and ehs she uses
on the phone with her mother and sister jân
or my pantless bottom spread
across her legs to meet the sting of kitchen utensils, how she uses a knife
edge to slide sliced onions into a pot for a thick stew.
I never remember the Farsi word
for mother, but I always remember baleh,
baleh,
baleh.
V. جانم (jânam)
I’ll keep jânam for myself, the moment my soul rose
to become her own mothering, worn
of the way my mother sucks back
nourishing, the moment my body filled
gathering waters for a new
joon, the moment before I knew of this swelling — stiffening
at my mother’s greedy touch
my skin — a river
already receding.
Note: There are no English language equivalents for the Farsi terms of endearment joon and jân or their derivatives. When used among family members — especially when an older family member is addressing a child — these words insinuate a willingness to die for the other person as well as an acknowledgment that the other person is a part of themselves. Loosely translated, these words mean soul/my soul or life/my life or dear/my dear.
A version of this poem first appeared in Lily Poetry Review.