In Kadıköy market, their money already
mingled, someone fished for coins
and handed a small few to the grocer; the other
inspected the apricots and kept the one
less beautiful. Each revealed, at their fingertips,
a pink moon. The firmament tasted like
an insatiable kiss. They held each other’s hands—
dirty from money, sticky with juice.
After I lost my breast, I became a woman
sutured by a kind of knowledge.All day I moved as if walking was no different
from falling. I owned the potholes
and the riddled sky. I owned nothing at all. Even from far away,
I could hear the record skipping.
Time was running out
of hands. Of faces. The first time a lover traced
my scar, fingered its river
and kissed its groove, I woke early
the next morning and, quietly, I left.