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Art and Poetry / Featured News



Rubbing half smeared-eyeliner farther across my cheek as I rise

out of my luke-warm, limp-pillowed, insomnia ridden bed.


Press the chilled doorknob of my mother’s house; as I pull forward I

rip open the security and prison of my saffron and sage warmed upbringing:


enter the cold unknown,

enter the dampness on the rugged dark path ahead of me,

enter the sweet smell of the roses with small teardrop of dew waiting for morning dust to kiss them,

enter the cold clinking of keys that I fumbling with determination between my chipped-nails and anemia


Atticus is cold

and takes time to warm up to me

I turn on my favorite tune-on to break the awkward silence

I caress him, my own legs, tighten my ass muscles and sit up straight


Headlights on here we go.


I swerve down the streets of my old town

like I imagine old couples swerve down each other bodies:

smoothly, sometimes not paying as much attention to the fine details as they should


unless they are dressed up in Christmas lights, spring flowers or suddenly taking notice of many cars lining the others streets.


Atticus, I lead him and he carries me,

I trust him on these icy cold nights, up into the hills

where we slide around bends, letting gravity, spirituality or melancholy carry us.


Atticus is warm and the night cold, and the world yours

we can drive to the Grand Canyon tonight baby

spraying kisses to the overworked truck drivers, hookers and vagabonds all the way till the sun meets the ground,

ground the sky,

sun the cloud,

clouds the mist,

mist the dusk,

dusk the sunrise,

sunrise to the dog days,

dog days to the rainbow stardust.


Atticus is ready to keep raging,

As I pull off into an alcove,

step out to a ceiling of shooting stars above my head

Atticus cracks and moans as if excited to be in this new found quiet space with red dusted below our feet;

Its only Atticus, me, and whatever the f*ck we call god here.


I Turn him off, I want to be alone.

His steam engine is huffing hard, the way I imagine my nonexistent counterparts muscles would when they walks out of hot water

(I always loved the warm feeling of melting hearts)


Atticus cools and sits in silence

I feel the numbness set in from my toes and finger tips

I feel my nose and and eyelashes and haired grow icy

I curl in to protect myself, to preserve the heat

to reserve that littlest small piece of hope


And when I can’t stand it anymore, I get up, breath with my belly, yell to the night and take off running back to Atticus.


Atticus is cold

and takes time to warm up to me

I turn on my favorite tune-on to break the awkward silence

I caress him, my own legs, tighten my ass muscles and sit up straight.


It’s time to go home.


Beatrice Maneshi

Author: Beatrice Maneshi
Author Bio: Beatrice is a Californian-Iranian development and aid program developer who specializes in women’s rights, environmental policies and the Middle East and Africa. She currently resides in Amsterdam where she spends her time trying to save the world by working as a consultant to NGO’s and social enterprises, dancing in techno bars and every once in a while practicing the Persian art of poetry in English free-form.
Link to social media or website: Twitter @Beatrice_Azad | Instagram @bumblebeabea |


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