Deep beneath the heaving bosom
of the Bosphorus,
responsive to the tug of tide,
the wash of passing caravel,
each dances in her weighted sack,

the faience of the boudoir
now a counterfeit of scattered shells,
its arabeques undone,
its symmetries usurped by swirling weeds.
A hermit crab dissects a hyacinth,

while slowly, slowly, feet retrace old steps,
remember distant choreographies:
the structured ribaldry
as anklet bells and tambourines
created parodies of passion.

Eels investigate the hessian.
As fluid as the last alliance of the Porte,
as sinuous as intrigue,
they discreetly sift the whisperings for substance,
bit by bit digest an ocean.

Jostling urchins bristle with the scruples
of the bloated Kislar Agha —
he who left his testicles in Africa,
professional spectator at the feast of life
whose mind is cursed with dark imaginings.

Beyond Rumeli Hisar lies the open sea,
its taut horizon like a bowstring.
Listen there for laughter that is lost,
the shrieking gull that soars
in search of vaster silences.



NOTE: The mad sultan Ibrahim (reigned 1640-48) drowned
his entire harem in the Bosphorus off Constaninople, so that
he could replace it with a new one. We know what happened
because one woman escaped from her sack, swam to the
surface, was rescued by a European ship, and eventually
made her way to Paris.



View guestbook
Sign guestbook