My grandmother was called Nasreen
that she died two years ago in Tabriz
and I couldn’t go to say goodbye,
that she knew nothing of power,
nuclear or otherwise. I want to say
that the bonfires for Chahar Shanbeh Suri
were built by our neighbour’s hands;
as children we were taught to jump over
and not be caught by the flames. I want to say
my cousin Elnaz, the one born after I left,
has a son and two degrees in Chemistry, 
and had trouble getting a job, I want to say
that the night we swam towards
the moon hanging over the horizon 
of the Caspian Sea, we found ourselves
kneeling on a sandbar we couldn’t see
like a last gift. I want to say
I’m the wrong person to ask.

Marjorie Lotfi is an Iranian American poet who lives and works in Scotland. This poem is from The Wrong Person to Ask (Bloodaxe, 2023, Winner of the Forward Prize for Best First Collection)