once I was no longer ashamed to look at myself,
I drew near to my own side for the first time.
in the night where I’ve washed and hung out my day to dry
leaving the man to his sleeplessness,
while the child drifts deep into a reverie
perhaps I, too, might slip away, unnoticed, in the quiet
I am but a pretext for the void,
a way to drown in sorrows not my own
huddled in the darkness,
I search once more for something or someone to shatter
the antics I pull before leaving the house
shall we eat out tonight?
but I mustn’t call the server a “waiter”
the word “garsoniyer” (bachelor’s pad) springs to mind
I fall into a fit of uncontrollable laughter
and you end up mortified
afternoon: this chestnut-red hair never suited me
I’m never going back to that bitch
besides, at this stage, no one expects
a “good marriage” from us anymore
late afternoon: a leg, half-exposed, costs as much as a package deal from last year
even in love, they’ve switched to a fixed exchange rate
even if you mistake my tailbone for my pelvic bone
it seems this scorpion tattoo has truly opened me up
evening: look, if we make love, you’ll only end up hurt
my mind is already tangled up with someone else
you’ll realize it the moment I start to undress
if we make love, you’ll weep, and I’ll be left shattered.
in the inner rooms, how many voices have I stifled against my own face
while onlookers might assume I’ve committed yet another transgression
I’ve driven letters deep into my own flesh
just to ensure there’s something I can spirit away from this world
now, here, upon stones freshly washed
with a single drop of sweat tracing a path from my neck to my breast
if I retreat into my own hidden corner: it becomes a “walking path”
if I lie in wait: it becomes a “wellness zone.”
my shield is thinner than my own skin
my shadow vanishes as I walk
and in the pitch-black dark, I am a riot of fireworks
daytime the crowd I once provoked
now chides me beneath the moon
the shoulders I brushed past in the marketplace
have begun giving lessons in grace
everyone has traded in their old habits
and while the city’s rough edges are being trimmed away
all that has fallen to my lot is a surly temper
a low hum: a box of old letters
the creaking of a weathered tree down below
they have hollowed me out like a lake and left me here
count me out of this race of spite
from now on, I would be ashamed to utter even a single word.
With my hands on the railing of this balcony,
I cannot reset the clock to a new time
life always arrives too late, while we spend our days chasing memories
caught between haste and hesitation, we stand stark naked for the first time
with nothing and no one but ourselves by our side.
English Translation by Mesut Şenol