Confessional to Famous Iranian Pop Singer Dariush II

Darius Atefat-Peckham

I am zealous. And joyful, too. This week, I ordered your beard 
on Amazon. If I could, I’d dismember myself and multiply. Spread to the far reaches 
of the garden, the hoz bubbling like a body on its way through. I ordered 
your beard even though I can grow it myself. I like to wear it around my ears, sing 

and feel it, a thing other than myself, peel it like tree peonies from the hinges 
of my face. I sing harmonies with a beautiful girl in your language 
in the garden, get it on the third or fourth try. It’s easier to sing in languages I don’t know 
when I’m not myself. When I was a boy, I grew my beard as thick 

as I could, dark patches of chrysanthemums growing open against 
the window of my face. My Bibi laughs, says I’m 
like a mullah. She touches the roughness of my jaw to open me up, makes a wish for what’s 
underneath. An Iranian girl informs me this is how 

I’m white-passing. I’m still glad, if only so she can’t see my white-
passing blush. When I was learning to paint, Bibi loosened 
the brush from my fist, showed me how to drag Lilium petals across the base 
of my mountain with a toothpick. Get their texture. Like yellow 

pubic hair, I thought with regret. I still haven’t forgiven her 
for dislodging beauty from what I struggled to make. Once, I watched 
many hands reach to tear bits of color from my mother’s 
canvas. Please, it’s like taking a piece of her 

with you, the holy man said before the ruins. Horrified, I tear a piece of my mother and place 
her in my pocket. I want to say it is not 
the same as the pockets of strangers. To explain that in the divided body grace survives 
undivided. To ask myself Gharibi mi-koni, why are you acting such 

a stranger. I want to say the felt of my pocket is not the same 
as soil. Nothing can grow there. I want to break 
apart. But I’m not wearing my beard yet. The girl begins playing her guitar before 
I’ve begun to sing. The hairs of my face spread apart, tear, are carried 

away. How can I pray if I’m not making myself darker.