An unnumbered house on Çırağan Street

 

A voice says “Zennube the Harlot”—prowling through the night

 

A fine rain falls, cowering from the rooftops—its syrupy texture delights me

 

A car twisting left and right—on renegade roads—inside me, a dying child (a plush doll in hand)

 

My mother washes me in a cold room, with frame-embroidered lace

 

Bar soap in my hair—I am born dead, turning off through a passage

 

Luminous roads—my heart muscle is weary of the light—then I remember

 

A young boy’s hand on my lip, where I once sang folk songs—oh, dear roads

 

A mad woman playing hopscotch—various metaphors—the scent of sour onions and lavender

 

Moldy flatbread in my father’s hand—a summer house—in the eyes of a few men

 

An unnumbered house—numbers in the rearview mirror—I drown myself in the mirror

 

Silver coins on my face—heads or tails—and haze, sound, stripes… the smile of an angel

 

Round ball-legs—blood—my hair grows, and as it grows, the angel laughs

 

In the sky—the child sitting on my groin and weeping—softly kissing my hair

 

And large letters in bold fonts…

 

Rain is falling on Çırağan Street

 

A woman—she has no one—

 

Transparent blood flows from white fingers…