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