10 teabags exactly

6,897 views

June 2012

This is not
a hotel room
this is home
for a week

She asks me
are you Turkish?

Sitting in the lounge
this white woman
this Australian woman
asks me if
I am
Turkish

I am not
I say

This white woman
this Australian woman
is surprised

She asks
are you sure
you are not
Turkish?

I tell her
again

I am not
Turkish

This white woman
this Australian woman
tells me

But you
look like
them

Her
laughter
explodes
right where
she
spoke

In my
left ear

This
explosion
travels
down
to my
mouth

I tell her

I know
all us
brown folk
look the same
to you

but

I am not
Turkish

She leaves

I run
back to
our always
(changing)
bedroom

Never a
hotel room

Not while my books are
on our nightstand
and your scotch is near
them books we both read
and I still have three
pairs of clean socks
and my clothes are
in your suitcase (how?)
and our bodies our bodies our bodies
your hairs my hands your waves in the
the cup of my hand     rhythmically
filling up thecupofmyhand

And then
your waves
again
again
and you know

All of this
will not
fill this
bedroom

All of this
will not
fill all the
bedrooms
after

All of this
explodes

Check-ins check-outs
passport control

All this foreignness
all this intimacy
in this foreignness

All these truths

Sighs

Waves

Like us
they travel

Through
chat boxes
and voice notes
if needed

All this foreignness
all this intimacy
in this foreignness

All of this
explodes

And you
you are
home

Always.

Tags: Foreign, home, intimacy, poetry