'I'm a failed Muslim.
I drink raki now,' he says.
A bottle twinkles
on the upturned orange box.

On the unmade bed,
a punch-drunk pillow
lurches in a sea of ruptured quilts.

'I never pray,' he adds,
as hawk-eyed Ataturk
retreats to an ascetic frame
and glowers at the room.

And we who are too precious
to confess our faults
feel awkward in the silence.

Nevşehir, 1990