from prinzenbad
Ozan Zakariya Keskinkılıç
laytkültür
by fajr i have grown a long beard. if you like,
break the challah on the grey of my hair. i’ll take the gift,
the last stretch over dried-up cups under calloused feet.
what can i say, at the margins the tongue clicks louder.
believe me, we’ve waited long enough. the hummus
must be shared. jump in headfirst, until you can’t tell,
is it her finger, is it his finger. and to whom does the
salty dream in the sesame puddle belong. my fathermother says
whoever eats alone commits a sin. she is right.
together it’s easier to forge plans. together it’s easier to sit
cheekily on the minaret. sunset over kreuzberg
and the shabbat candles glow from one cuma to the next.
what can i say, at the margins the tongue clicks louder.
time to rewrite the guest list. believe me, we’ve waited
long enough. with maghrib, the day really begins.
table and chairs are reserved, the bill—
footed by the occident.
like wine for hafiz
your name has lost its way, wanders over arms.
spine. and legs too. if i had to describe you:
like wine, like a slender cypress for hafiz.
and cheeks like moonlight.
your lips keçi boynuzu,
sun-ripened badinjan, pistachio ice cream
in the mahalle. and your glances like
warm sand burrow deep into pores,
grate armpits. knees. and toes too. just before isha
dipping my head under hot water,
closing my eyes and murmuring, incessantly
murmuring your name, pulling the plug
at some point, spinning and spinning and
spinning, and maybe disappearing.
by fajr i have grown a long beard. if you like,
break the challah on the grey of my hair. i’ll take the gift,
the last stretch over dried-up cups under calloused feet.
what can i say, at the margins the tongue clicks louder.
believe me, we’ve waited long enough. the hummus
must be shared. jump in headfirst, until you can’t tell,
is it her finger, is it his finger. and to whom does the
salty dream in the sesame puddle belong. my fathermother says
whoever eats alone commits a sin. she is right.
together it’s easier to forge plans. together it’s easier to sit
cheekily on the minaret. sunset over kreuzberg
and the shabbat candles glow from one cuma to the next.
what can i say, at the margins the tongue clicks louder.
time to rewrite the guest list. believe me, we’ve waited
long enough. with maghrib, the day really begins.
table and chairs are reserved, the bill—
footed by the occident.
like wine for hafiz
your name has lost its way, wanders over arms.
spine. and legs too. if i had to describe you:
like wine, like a slender cypress for hafiz.
and cheeks like moonlight.
your lips keçi boynuzu,
sun-ripened badinjan, pistachio ice cream
in the mahalle. and your glances like
warm sand burrow deep into pores,
grate armpits. knees. and toes too. just before isha
dipping my head under hot water,
closing my eyes and murmuring, incessantly
murmuring your name, pulling the plug
at some point, spinning and spinning and
spinning, and maybe disappearing.
translated from the German by Özgecan Kesici