babayani
July
Beetles crawl in the flowered artichoke. The purple petals are melancholy. I can feel their restlessness. I wear paisley and blue gemstones tied in my hair. Sunset takes too long, like his hand between my legs. Filiz tossed me two lemons, and I've juiced them to pour over the lettuce with a bit of oil and salt—olives and plums from the garden. I’ve left the pits in small dishes by the sink. The still-water creeks are dry in mid-July, so it’s all mud. Only the locals recognize the water pools. It’s a secret, they say between small sips of black tea. We shared small slivers of nutmeg cake, and I spread my towel over three rocks to sunbathe. I lost an earring in the waterfall. DIVE, the girl with dark eyes said, so I did. I rose from the bottom, panting. My fantasies match reality, so I never know if I’m awake or in a dream state. I stood in the creek to my waist and watched a blue butterfly dance above the water. It dipped three times, so I dove in. Show off. I fell into a burr bush, and the yellow spines drew blood from my thumb. I was lost on the path, and the burnt rose bush showed me the way home. Death by daylight; a cemetery of sunflowers. I am watching the shadows on the ivory rock face, that gentle blend of light. I am not who I was in the city. A girl in strappy shoes and polished toes. A girl with a mouthful of pasta and a glass of champagne. Out here, I write poetry at dusk and eat bean salad. Out here, it is desert-dry, and my feet are always dirty. Out here, I am content in a way that makes me discontent, and the days are too long to worry about anything of specific significance. Summer is a pistachio dipped in dark chocolate and rolled in salt.
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