Jennifer Blankenship
I cannot conduct myself like a lady anymore.
Another Turkish man to follow my hips when I move
and stop me from paying
or crossing the street alone.
"Please follow me."
And my hands still smell like his
because all day he was,
absently
but so awarely,
searching for them in the inches
where wind blew between our bodies.
And I saw islands in the distance today.
Never before in my lifeĀ
islands,
standing in the middle of the Bosporus, and ships laid out on the sea.
"Like a movie,"
he says.
And I stare for minutes,
speechless at the art of man-conquering ships,
shadows on the ocean,
calm and laid out before me,
and the city laid out before me,
and the man who drove me there.
Either the men here scoff at my shoes
and the historical rags on my wrists
and write me off as a disorganized American woman
with hair falling down onto her neck,
or they fall in love with me,
asking questions about everything
because they want to hear a different language
come falling from my mouth.
And because I don't know what else to do,
I allow them to hold my hand
so it haunts me hereafter.
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