They Say Gemlik Will Fall in an Earthquake
For #pinargültekin
Fresh figs in serial killer red paint
The sea will rise and bury the coast
Wind turbines
and boarded over windows on cement houses
Serpentine cuts in rock that bleed scarlet
Up close, imagined taste of minerals on my tongue, tang of iron
Her face upturned, her smile swiped from existence
Imposter poets and a different sea
Her breath stolen, her thoughts scattered
Into molecules too small to see
Too early
Afternoon drifts into evening
Pink hills, after-hue of the sun,
His hands washing away the blood
Lake Bafa bathed in golden, broken light
Listen, This Is Not a Poem
It is a reordering of the things I think
Phrases of cognition and pulling from the visible
To what is below
Always scraping to see what is beneath
Yet brush of seaweed against my ankle and I stiffen
I read it as an invitation
That it could be my hand, reaching
I’m safe here, where it is fluid
Away from the barnacles of language
Into a layer on top of the other one where
Ordinary means saying things correctly
But I slip and words vanish, get replaced with new ones
Which ones to choose when my mind floats on definitions of my own creation?
Handing off the brush pens
A pregnant woman in the shape of a rock
(Late at night she is a mountain in the form of head, breasts, soft hands on swollen belly)
I sat and small things crawled on me
Willed myself not to move
Explained, the movement of limbs is for this purpose
We Can’t Come in Because of the Rain
Notations on missing raindrops
And other water-starved patches of earth
When you pass Susurluk
Somewhere between the gulf and sea
The water table drains
The squish of sandals on grass that can’t decide
If it should stay or go
The edges flood inward
Flush with the imprint of wants
That have been released
Now only the cool walls, the cement
A single image on the paint
While the scent of coconut bronzer
Turns my head
It is mixed with the burnt smoke of a cigarette
And bark from the tree
That casts a shadow over my mid-day body
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