TWO POEMS by Zuleyha Ozturk Lasky

/ / ISSUE 27, Poetry, Uncategorized

Severn, Maryland

pink mouths of crepe myrtle mouthing words like
çay demle kızım and a sloped garden in the back and a creaking deck and a bookshelf full of religious texts and my bedroom in robin blue and hairbands always lost under couch cushions and prayer rug facing the direction it’s supposed to face and me facing the opposite way and prayer rugs quartered and stacked in a pile inside the tv console and prayer beads hanging from lamps and Keurig machine and milk frother and two teapots (one electric, one traditional) and windows facing trees and grape leaves brined in jars and fig jams lined on the shelf and sink full of dishes and when washing dishes a window facing the neighbors pool and my father asleep and overworked on the couch and a bowl of seasonal fruit and my mother asleep and overworked on the couch and my sisters whisper laughing and pantry full of turkish sweets and sunflower seeds and gallon of olive oil and lentils and dried mint and fridge that always hums past midnight and tv tuned to politics or a movie and fly always buzzing and a trail of ants that will never leave


Hyattsville, Maryland

a teapot recently bought from turkish market and sunlight slipping through slats like ballet dancers and three lemon sprouts and a balcony to count the balcony dogs and the sunflowers painted on a ceramic plant pot and next door neighbors with their balcony door open and my first ramadan away from family and our neighbors wake up with us during a salted night and ezan waltzing out their door and dust on our bookshelves and your phone in pool and our studio with high ceilings and built-in granite desk which is technically a bar corner and Beatles poster with fox-gloves that become jellyfish when dropping acid and so much time to graze on your lips and quarantine thanksgiving and quarantine work and quarantine writing and quarantine walks and masks forgotten in pockets clung to dryer sheets and sick three days after vaccine and sick three days after wedding and impromptu Ocean City trip where we ran under kites shaped like our laughter and so many matchbox apartments with high ceilings in gentrified neighborhood and mid-day walks to Vigilante to order americano and latte and somedays there were two or three walks just because and no one on the streets and walks near the railroad tracks and the apartment our home now with our fortune read in coffee grinds shaped like fish and look how they feel swimming under our feet






TWO POEMS by Zuleyha Ozturk Lasky




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TWO POEMS by Daniele Pantano


TWO POEMS by Lucas Jorgensen





DOG by Jade Song





ASUNCION FEVER by Beverly Burch





A FLOWER THAT REFUSES TO BE POETRY by Kim Hyesoon trans. Cindy Juyoung Ok


TWO POEMS by Abdourahman Waberi trans. Nancy Naomi Carlson


(JANUARY) by Hanna Riisager trans. Kristina Anderson Bicher


THREE POEMS by Nadja Küchenmeister trans. Aimee Chor


AN EXCERPT from YOU by Chantal Neveu trans. Erín Moure


AROUND THE FIRE by Gloria Susana Esquivel trans. Joel Streicker


INVITATION TO END by Faris Kuseyri trans. Patrick Sykes