on the floor
a little death after a livid
orgasm.

numb. all feeling gone.
out of breath.

next to them in the flat
a small fenced balcony
above it a cloudless sky.

Calmed and carefully
she rolls off him
pulls on white, silk undies
and walks out onto the balcony
to breathe and sigh.

She bends over the railing
her breasts rest on the metal.

She turns around and speaks
in a soft, detached voice:
“Where’s your accent from?”

Still on his back, buckling his belt
he answers automatically, reluctantly:
– Iran . . . in the middle east . . . under Russia and Turkey . . . next to . . .

“I know where Iran is. I used to be an airhostess. What was your name again?”

– Arash. That’s Uh
rash. It’s Old Persian
meaning ‘truthful’.

She grins and says: “Do you wanna know the truth then, Persian Prince?”

He rolls on the floor, looking
at her beautifully curved back
and answers:
– You can start by telling me if you’re on the pill ’cos otherwise . . .

But she hasn’t heard him
and spreads her arms
an inspired female Christ
her evangelist, blue eyes
scan the City’s concrete panorama.

She says
in a raising, disturbed tone:

“You believe in Heaven and Hell in Iran?”

– You didn’t even give me the chance to put on a condo . . . what? Heaven and . . . ??? Eh?

A cool stream
terrified tears
glaze her dimples:

“It’s hell. Burning all the time.
The City. Remember that . . . this is it . . .”

and head-first
throws herself over the railing.