Guzelim

Guzelim

My favorite nights
were the ones you whispered
to me in your language.
“Guzelim,” you called me.
“Guzelim, we shall always be
together.

“If we were in my country,
I would take you
to the spice market.
I would buy you oils
and perfumes,
and yards of the finest silk.

“My mother and grandmother would
sew the silk into a gown,
which you would wear
when I claimed you.”

I would laugh and pull
myself in closer to you,
feeling the soft paunch
of your belly pressing against
the curve of my back,
and ask you to tell me more.

“In my country, our wedding
would last forty days
and forty nights.
We would feast and share
gifts with everyone
in the village.

“I am a traditional man, guzelim,
and we would follow tradition.”

I closed my eyes and envisioned
the ancient world of spires
sweeping high above the mosques,
sitting next to a tall skyscraper,
all overlooking the Aegean Sea.

Like a postcard photo, me, fair, short
and round, my bright orange hair pressed
against your black shirt. You, dark and tall,
but just as round, the burnished brown
of your skin matching the bronze
pressed into the spires of the mosques.

My breathing would deepen as you spoke
of your homeland, describing
the Bosporus strait, as I rested my head
upon your arm. One of your hands
would intertwine with mine, two fleshy
thumbs tangling around each other.

Each morning when I woke, the bed was cold,
an image of your form still pressed
into my mattress. On the nightstand,
a yellow sticky note with one
Turkish word and two English ones.

Guzelim –

Until tonight.