Gifted Figs & Istanbul, poems published by Tanya Evanson

Fresh figs split easy in the hand
Inside are tiny humans rooted in the skin

Heads bumping up against other heads
It is the overpopulated world turned outside in

If we lived this way, locked inside the skin of Earth
Without the Sun to heal and ripen us

Egos would breathe more air than lungs

Live knowing sunlight is a gift and not a given
And Light is a given seen only by the gifted few, by the gifted few

And you are gifted

Here, the ferryboats keep time with the call to prayer. Bridges run from Asia to Europe. You cannot walk across them. These are border towns where a throated river unites land. Good neighbours comment only on the world at their disposal. Have we aged beyond thinking?

I came to this Miracle City to pray. My prayers were answered when I asked to burn and fire came. Istanbul flamed my face, the soles of my feet, my back. Fevered me for five days. Aware of flame, of light, it blinded me so that I could not even see the world. My eyes have taken some time to adjust to this new submission.

I prayed for a good man and now my throat is taking a sweet Bosphorous beating. My tongue has left me. I am at the mercy of tongued strangers. Not strangers at all, canim. Everything has its place, even in lingual Pain. Each moment leading away. The moment itself, the guide.