for Saf

Like the Italian one, my family’s rebirth
spawned masterpieces, caused a breakdown

like the civil wars of the Reformation
with few victors, countless casualties. Mine

a kind of persecution: bullied, beaten
at school for being a ‘dirty terrorist’ and

my resurrection stunted, my ‘new
start’ delayed. Immigration was more than

traumatic, abusive, for my father: defeat
and capitulation at the hands of employers

dreading a foreign-educated ‘wog’ without
‘acceptable’ Western work history. Mum’s

reshaping as an ‘Aussie’ almost aborted:
she returned to Iran (temporarily, it turned out)

when denied recognition of her degrees
by the union. I took up drugs; became a drunk

to forget the bullies, banish from my ears
the din of my parents’ jousts in the kitchen. But

my sister, a triumphant genius, the Leonardo
of this renaissance tale: the death of her Iranian

identity, followed by calm gestation – caring
daughter in the crossfire between workless father

and alcoholic brother – and then, yes, successful
delivery: a modern young woman, her alacrity

salary, property, paid holidays, etc. In photos
her posture, an homage to Michelangelo’s David.