Impossible at this age
Ça veut dire que tu es nul au foot!
Small blond boy in Messi’s jersey,
flawless French on the Marmara shore.
Not at all like my year in Aix
when I came back and clammed up.
“A whole YEAR?” Uh-huh.
He huffs his bony shoulders and kicks the
soccer ball toward his incompetent teammate.
I am at the Caddebostan promenade, in
the mauve gauze of evening.
(in Turkish, to his father):
“Do we really have to go home?”
There is nothing left for me, nothing.
I plan for my children.
I will give birth in all countries at once.
Photo by İnci, taken in Caddebostan
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This poem first appeared in the spring 2013 edition of The Wellesley Review. It was later published on the Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art Blog.
