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Poems
MERSIN, TURKEY
The streets become alleys,
then tangle before Ali’s Patisserie
where a toddler holds a pretzel
and a crayon: one to go in,
one to go out to the world:
her vision of this place
where she was born: her aunts
bickering, her father reaching
for a pack of Samsun cigarettes.
She sees the boys on their bikes,
the girls checking their mascara
in the mirrors of parked cars,
and in 99 ways she will be them—
once the crayon drawings go,
and the stubs of her crayons.
But there’ll always be pretzels,
and the kitchen balcony
where she can watch the birds,
though they’re not the birds
in her books, or that float
through her dreams. They are hard
and gray and silent, exploring
the city’s detritus slowly,
hoping some treasure
waits, or some catastrophe.