The Call to Prayer

In Istanbul, the men

whistle as you pass, let their eyes roam

down alleys as you loose yourself

amongst bins of olives, dates,

wonder through the bazaar following the scent of turmeric,

sahlep, cinnamon bark. When you get hungry, stop

to talk to weathered fishermen, eat Balik ekmek,

fish sandwiches, and browse

rows upon rows of antiques, fragile

ceramics and ancient books bound in soft leather,

stories of the Ottoman empire and sultans, women

and children that spill onto the streets, fill the city

with the sound of heavy Turkish voices, Adman

echoing through the mosques,

the call to prayer.

You don't search for love

it finds you tucked away

in a corner booth at the Mint, drinking mojitos

and gossiping, or beside the last empty seat

on the number eight bus, shopping bags

piled at your feet. It finds you

when your eyes are closed, arms spread

to feel the breeze coming in off the ocean

at Ogden Point, as you wait in line

to order your morning coffee at the Black Stilt,

when you first hear the voice

of the man standing in line behind you.

white

when I'm with you, the world is white,

there is no colour, no sound, only the feel of skin

moving as one, your fingers exploring

the edges of my hairline, the contours of my breasts

there is no colour, no sound, only the feel of skin

we exist in a world of cotton sheets and white washed walls

the edges of my hairline, the contours of my breasts

here everything is bright and smooth

we exist in a world of cotton sheets and white washed walls

pause to listen to the sound of your heart beating,

here, everything is bright and smooth

our bodies echo in the stillness

pause to listen to the sound of your heart beating,

with the weight of you around me, fill the room

our bodies echo in the stillness

there is no gossip, no alarm clocks, no stop signs

with the weight of you around me, fill the room

there is no colour, no sound, only the feel of skin

there is no gossip, no alarm clocks, no stop signs

when I'm with you, the world is white

Messy

After it rains, find the perfect spot and burry my feet deep enough that I can't move. Up to my ankles and stuck. Love so thick I can barely wiggle my toes. When you ask me what I'm doing, I'll tell you I'm making love pies. If you say that I'll get dirty or ruin my clothes, I'll explain to you that love is messy. I don't care if it stains, cover myself from head to toe, smears of love between my fingers and streaked throughout my hair. And if you come close enough, I'll toss love at you. Great gobs of it, flying through the air. Watch it splatter against your t-shirt and hope that you'll dig your hands in and get dirty. Hurl love right back.

Morning

The colour of the sky before the sun

has fully risen, the damp

of dew against bare flesh. The world

slowly awakening, the rush

of frigid air as you pull back

the covers, cold water

hitting your back

before the shower is warm.

Capture

I want to write you into my life, capture

the feeling of your fingers against the curve

of my spine, the damp curl of hair

at the base of your neck and the look of your face, flushed,

blood beneath your skin, the sound

of my heart pounding

in my ears when you stand

close enough that I can feel you.