Zuleyha Ozturk Lasky Tallahassee. (Max Lasky)
We Fuel Us Clairvoyant
We take off our headscarves. We shut blinds. We take wing
after wing and boil us. We burn paper as fuel for the samovar.
We no longer pray in mosques, we no longer sin, instead we king
our sky as clairvoyant. Break our bones like reeds to sing
until we return to Medusa’s mausoleum. Our hands appear
to take off our headscarves. We shut blinds. We take wing
after wing: burn over sky, we snow us in—a mother sting
in our womb. We bury Istanbul. We forget our wooden hair.
No longer we pray. No longer we sin in mosques. Instead, we king
our grandmother gutting peppers. We pocketknife. We shrink
our sky as clairvoyant. We pluck our lives. We chore. We tear.
We take off the blinds and shut our heads. Scarfed, we break wing
after chicken wing cooked beside stuffed peppers we bring
us to clairvoyance. We burn joyous. We wear tight the fear
of mosques. Prayers tell us to no longer sin. Instead, we king
ourselves. We exist in every story censored, every surgical string
to enclose us. We milk us sour and burn us as fuel for the samovar.
We take off our headscarves. We shut their blinds. Take our wings
off no mosque prayers. We sin longer! No longer do we king.
originally published in Small Orange
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