photo by Alex Lear

I WONDER WHAT YOU

FEEL LIKE NOW

(after a 24nov2010 meeting with Ozge Ersoy & her friend Canay)

I talked to Esim yesterday, had not seen her since

March 1965 when I was fleeing back south, Ozge you were

The Esim I seldom recall but can never forget

The patience of Esim’s eyes speaking to me full on unafraid

Of my young blackness, like when you slapped my hand

As I moved to caress the magnet that was your breast

And shortly after the sting had subsided and I withdrew

My fingers from beneath your blouse I felt your hand atop

Mine leading me to cup your fully clothed breast

I was not confused, I knew that we were reaching

For each other across dangerous cultural waters, Esim

Bozoklar from Turkey, Val Ferdinand from New Orleans

Most days I think our union never could have held

I had too many changes yet to go through, too much

Growth to accomplish, too much, besides America is always

Both inhospitable and dangerous for any shade

Of otherness, any language other, and especially

Any mixture or matching of outsiders, would I

Like Baldwin have flown to Turkey, how would our children

Have identified themselves—Esim, though we chose not to

Cross those tough bridges I think our conversation perhaps

Assures me there was room for us on the other side, Ozge

You could have been my daughter and Esim’s eyes

Would be the answer to questions we have for each other

A Turkish woman is talking to me tenderly even though

A casual ease-dropper might simply think us intellectuals

In a café exchanging ideas and academic theories

The onlooker would not, could not feel the river of emotions

Flowing beneath the calm of our conversation, Esim/Ozge

I don’t know what you were thinking about, but I’m certain

I know that I was thinking about you; and now I am writing this

A day later on another day like most days except today is the last

Thursday in November when America celebrates a holiday

Giving thanks for all they stole, most of us render praises unto

The lord but shouldn’t our hosannas be devil due? Fortunately

I don’t believe in all of that, any of that, I believe

In life in all its contradictions, I try to avoid absolutes

And sentimentalities, regrets and maudlin thoughts about

Could have beens, should have beens, and any thing other

Than what is—nevertheless I wonder, Esim, are you still alive,

Do you reside anywhere besides inside this cup of memory

Harbored in the flesh of my hand’s long ago touch

—kalamu ya salaam