Rituals of Language by Nur Turkmani
Rituals of Language
Nur TurkmaniYes, the fog has lifted.
I can almost think again.
Mostly about words,
what remains of them,
where they are stored.
No doubt it is January,
outside the trees strip
like bodies.
Though I fear storms,
I like their aftermath.
I scribble this down–
my handwriting too old,
in fact too young,
to still be mine.
But who else will claim it?
I did not want to be
mysterious to myself,
and so comprehensible
to the city. This city
that smells like fried eggplant
and gasoline,
impossible to scrub off.
If only I leave it alone.
If only you ask where it hurts.
I’ll point to my throat.
Or your face. How they ask
for more than I can give.
KEEP READING
SHARED WITH GRATITUDE
This poem appeared in Amsterdam Review, Spring, 2024.
ABOUT NUR TURKMANI
Nur Turkmani is a writer from Beirut. She’s at work on a short story collection and has a poetry collection selected by Chen Chen for Purple Ink’s Poetry Prize and forthcoming in 2026 with Hajar Press. Her writing appears in The Missouri Review, New England Review, Short Fiction, Poetry London, Evergreen Review, Copper Nickel, The Rumpus, The Adroit Journal, West Branch, DAZED, The Offing, and others. Her poem “Burnt Apple” was selected as a finalist for Columbia Journal’s… (more)
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ENDNOTES
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