Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. A native of Boise, Idaho, his work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as Unstamatic, Door Is A Jar Magazine, Maudlin House, and Ariel Chart. Mir-Yashar lives in Garden Valley, Idaho.
Recess Dreams, 2001
once, at recess, eighth grade, I reprised the weight of swings feet pumping, higher, higher, while others took to fields soccer balls dreamed I was a mistake. Not a fourteen-year old sun smiled, cerulean endlessness over rooftops, even though it was September. 2001 was the so-called realism instead, I dreamed I was a child out of time, swinging higher, above the school fields which held soccer balls and trailers for classrooms foreign to a boy from Victorian era, a stately, lovingly stern word transplanted in computers by freak accident dwelling among terrorists and cars without grace and verve instead of elegant bowler hats and carriage expanding railroads and neo-Gothic glory, curved Victorian grandeur (the racism erased in my mind). With each pump of legs, on I dreamt, sky encouraging cerulean smiles of a long-lost mother rushing through time. To save me (never mind the Gilded Age of inequality) I swung higher on swings to bring me back from bearded terror to lilting voices, love, darling, terms of endearment (never mind the lack of women’s suffrage and motherly misery). while I clung to my swing, throne carrying me up into visions she wept like the perfect Romantic era, tears absurdly idiotic but beautiful drowning the terrorists (never mind Alexander Ulyanov, who tried to blow up Alexander III) leading me into constricted liberation of arms and motherly edicts in Edison films of grainy, ordered black and white not cold grays and charcoals. Human nature I dreamed of this, while students took to games of soccer, real eighth grade things even when time called me down, legs surrendering to the sand and the boundaries of school buildings, dreamed of being whisked away while the towers burned and my dream mother rushed to carry me back before bombs were so common (assassination of Alexander II, whitewashed) carry me into a world where not even breakfast could be consumed without stilted protection the next time I got on the swings