by Koray Feyiz
The storm didn't pull the night's teeth, I did.
It was me out there in the pitying forest, fluttering,
The geranium tearing open the window
To hold onto you when you’ve already gone.
It was my broken wing, my forgotten voice.
I was the tremulous and mournful cistern.
It was me getting restless at the locksmith's dinner table
Before the little dishes laid out in poor light.
I wanted to speak lovingly
To dissuade the chick that wants to leave.
The well's empty bucket
Can't be forgotten once it's swinging free.
Making love for the last time
I warmed the shivering roots of insomnia.
The salt of morning melted in the rising sun.
Your secret is safe with me,
It's you, the clovers.
Gathered with ecstatic melancholy.
Your frost-covered meadows
Make mountain ridges howl.
Flowing through a fine scar inside me,
A scream interrupts your blood flowing.
That scream is you, trying to breathe.
Translated by Dr. Nesrin Eruysal & Ken Fifer
Last updated June 12, 2016