Istanbul, I must leave you!

Istanbul — I must leave you!
The night clanks through
your dark streets, mechanical,

dragging itself, sparking
against the stones—
its sparks only an approximation of stars.

Because of your numerous eyes,
I’ve sold my typewriter.
I scribble these lines inside my head

while everyone’s fields
have begun to burn—
even mine, aflame

with the books I wrote
or should have written.

Tonight the hills glow
with the eerie hue of war.

Inside and outside
the apartment walls argue—
jealous of each other,

not knowing the difference
hasn’t mattered in years.

I am tired of all this.
Istanbul, hurry—
we must pack our shadows
and our shirts.

O, how our words
have become palsied,
our language a sad code
of gestures and daily white flags.

Hurry—we must leave
before our words
fail us completely.

We must go, my love.
Everyone has gone before us—
by grave,
or by sea.

Even the moon has fled,
a stowaway
on a borrowed boat.

Collage by Christopher Leibow