by Ece Apaydin
The childhood of Tayf was a place where it is able to snuggle down and sleep
my childhood was a letter that steamed across the great ocean. my son’s childhood
was a theater-in-the-round of the predators. a town theater
which the makers put a brick each day the letters and the shadows of the retreating animals
they had steamed across the ocean with my childhood. my name was poured with its archaic passenger
from an envelope with an inflammable mouth that recognize its letter. such as
the wide shoulders of the cognac bottle. a collapsing god times. it was said to us like this
the house is a rising value go up to the attic !
Tayf’s childhood listened at a corner. don’t you dare the words are created for those like them.
don’t you dare a kiss is wanted for a number of games
mind! I will wish to be already dead because
when the lights are gone. the house is gone. the hair
of the dusty and heavy curtains. former time lamps
mind! do not go. in this poem
all of us have a room !
The childhood of the Spectrum is a bright scarlet prescription. ascend the floors slowly
throw your excess belongings. house over house rose over rose. of those house makers
adobe. Mind! a tower in their dictionary. I have worked for peanuts
in the kitchen and in the hallway. my childhood watched me silently. carrying in their pockets
dictionary and meteorite. house over house. mind!
dough pot holders are not enough. dressing gowns. undercooked eggs
the evil eye in the broken leather of the sandals !
Embalming a life with sorrow is not enough.
Last updated June 12, 2016