I WONDER WHAT YOU FEEL LIKE NOW
(after a 24nov2010 meeting with Ozge Ersoy & her friend Canay)
I talked to Esim yesterday, had not seen her since
March 1965 when I was fleeing back south, Ozge you were
The Esim I seldom recall but can never forget
The patience of Esim’s eyes speaking to me full on unafraid
Of my young blackness, like when you slapped my hand
As I moved to caress the magnet that was your breast
And shortly after the sting had subsided and I withdrew
My fingers from beneath your blouse I felt your hand atop
Mine leading me to cup your fully clothed breast
I was not confused, I knew that we were reaching
For each other across dangerous cultural waters, Esim
Bozoklar from Turkey, Val Ferdinand from New Orleans
Most days I think our union never could have held
I had too many changes yet to go through, too much
Growth to accomplish, too much, besides America is always
Both inhospitable and dangerous for any shade
Of otherness, any language other, and especially
Any mixture or matching of outsiders, would I
Like Baldwin have flown to Turkey, how would our children
Have identified themselves—Esim, though we chose not to
Cross those tough bridges I think our conversation perhaps
Assures me there was room for us on the other side, Ozge
You could have been my daughter and Esim’s eyes
Would be the answer to questions we have for each other
A Turkish woman is talking to me tenderly even though
A casual ease-dropper might simply think us intellectuals
In a café exchanging ideas and academic theories
The onlooker would not, could not feel the river of emotions
Flowing beneath the calm of our conversation, Esim/Ozge
I don’t know what you were thinking about, but I’m certain
I know that I was thinking about you; and now I am writing this
A day later on another day like most days except today is the last
Thursday in November when America celebrates a holiday
Giving thanks for all they stole, most of us render praises unto
The lord but shouldn’t our hosannas be devil due? Fortunately
I don’t believe in all of that, any of that, I believe
In life in all its contradictions, I try to avoid absolutes
And sentimentalities, regrets and maudlin thoughts about
Could have beens, should have beens, and any thing other
Than what is—nevertheless I wonder, Esim, are you still alive,
Do you reside anywhere besides inside this cup of memory
Harbored in the flesh of my hand’s long ago touch
—kalamu ya salaam