FOUND OUT 1967

A GIRL IS VISITED BY HER MOTHER IN 1967

The psychiatrist had just left.

Nima sat in a chair
by the window
staring out.

Where were you
this weekend?
A voice said
from the doorway.

Nima turned,
and saw her mother
standing there,
stiff in her black dress suit,
hair permed to a neat pile.

Out with a friend,
Nima said.

Her mother entered
the side ward.

Which friend?
Her mother said.

You don't know them,
Nima said.

Them more than one?
The mother said,
walking around
the small ward,
eyeing her daughter,
taking in the thinness,
paleness.

A friend,
one singular,
Nima said,
looking away,
avoiding her mother's
stern stare.

Male or female?
the mother said,
her voice stiff and hard.

Nima sighed.

Does it matter?

They let you out
with just a friend?
The mother stood opposite
her daughter;
I will asked what
they think they are doing
letting you with just anyone.

He's not just anyone,
Nima said,
he's from the church,
he's helping me.

Her mother raised
an eyebrow.

Where did you stay?

Nima sighed,
some place
for church people,
Nima said,
quiet place.

I know when you lie,
her mother said,
where did you really go?

Nima stood up,
and walked away
from her mother.

Aunt's place
while she's away,
Nima said.

Who did you sleep with?
The mother said.

Nima gazed at her mother,
a friend,
she said,
someone I like,
and who cares
about me.

The mother sat down
and sighed,
I hope he does,
her mother replied.