Postcards from Istanbul /9

“You are always my concern. Nothing has happened to me to make me suddenly think more intensely of you… you, beautiful things and gloomy things are spread over my fleeting days” – Ingeborg Bachmann to Paul Celan May 1949 (unreceived letter) Mosaics are works of art comprising thousands of broken pieces. They are perfect symbols…

Proof

    The crevice of my ear still carries the hint of your breath, shoulders bear the weight of bruising Your grip is stencilled into flesh, yet fingertips trace a trajectory of the spine with unbearable lightness A forensic nightmare, my body the whistle-blower of surrendered intimacies and forbidden trespasses The feral scent of our…

After the war

  Penelope, twenty years away from you I forget the little things. The toss of your head, the tumble of your breasts as you disrobe. I wake up with a fire in my belly and an ache in my loins. And always, always this perfect thirst. “I miss you,” you say. “I miss you, and…

A letter to you, from 15 years ago

Dear S, I was waiting for your call all last night and while we were at dinner. Adrian refused to enter into a discussion with me about anything. See, she claims each time we start a conversation my blasted mobile goes off and the ringing drives her crazy. So I told her to please, please make…

How can you not return?

  Isn’t it just the truth that the places you ought to stay away from are the places you have loved the best? Ancient ruins, abandoned forts, haunted houses, and people. Some places you simply must not return to. Yet, return you do. It’s an itch you need to scratch. A boil that beseeches a…

A Journal of Undoing – Three

Ever saw someone who made your brain freeze when they smiled? Someone whom you couldn’t bear to lean on you in case they heard your hammering heart?   Hers is a beauty that loosens the flesh from my bones and makes its home in the canals of my marrow. Each time I saw her, an earthquake…

All the world’s words are yours.

There are some words I never want to hear again. This is one of them.  This word is you. This word spells your name, only in different letters. Letters that belong to an alphabet of a language I do not speak anymore because the only other speaker no longer speaks to me. It is a dead…

Hypnagogia

It is the middle of the night in a week in the middle of winter. The dark is darker here. The cold is no stranger but that does not offer warmth. Dense fog settles itself over the crop, its booted feet stepping gingerly over the hibernating soil and bare tree branches. There is a field….

Notes to a friend going to meet my love

There are fireworks going off here. It’s like the world is calling out her name. Listen to me, my friend. Before you go there are some things you must know. You will meet her, and her beauty will confuse you. It will derail you. You will sit across the table from her and she will…