Istanbul

This morning, seabirds shriek like Ganymede,
the minarets of Beyoglu clear their throats
of ancient static. Men shift from remote
causeways through the Doppler-echo streets
and coalesce in prayer. I didn’t sleep
and Hassan never called.

The bakeries
on Istiklal Caddesi, their refractory-
tiled walls igniting embers deep
inside the ashes, braid a strange croissant.
Reflected in their dusty windows, gaunt,
exhausted, I look lost. A wedding guest
neglected by the groom. The call to prayer
continues. Choirs of ancient record players
speak to God in fractured anapest.

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