I have been to many a house

Alas, never a home.
But one silver day

my father phoned

from the North of Iran where

I could hear the sea in his voice and the sun

dangling from the ceiling of his worn villa;

my skin streaming to the source of his humid voice,

and I confessed I did not want to be in London in this golden city that

I used to exoticise

as a grateful immigrant girl

always on time for visa stamps, smiling in the police registration

to conceal the seemingly reasonless stress

sticking to deadlines like they were my guns

every application a war that

had to be won.

Thrilled just to be acknowledged by whiteness

and the sparkling promise of nothingness.

Speaking my second language like eating an ice cream:

cold but sweet

foreign words swimming in my foreign mouth

sometimes tricky, always surprising

like a secret that I shouted to betray a friend

except that I betrayed myself by confessing to my father

I want to be where you are

I want to be in Iran

melting in the Caspian under its ruthless sun

until my pale skin turns brown

and I become a real brown person who

can keep secrets and

admits she misses the sizzling streets

of her burning country.