Sailing to Byzantium

i forgot about Istanbul,
the mosques in blue and coral,
with painted domes and Iznik tiles,
courtyards, minarets and you,
adjusting my head covering,
telling me i should convert religions.

staring up high to the ceiling
feeling mostly bored below,
Hagia Sofia is getting old,
crumbling walls, fading paintings,
half of it closed off for reconstruction.
Bagge wants a cigarette,
we want scrutiny, indiscrimination.

the most beautiful mosque we found
on the crowded streets of the filthy city,
tucked away behind a poor man's stand,
shocking on the outside,
dirty tapestries, stairs, broken cement,
even more vibrant on the inside, our cold
feet warmed by the rug,
numbed by no shoes on in public,
and the natives of the city praying beside us,
our peripheral vision weathered
by the scarf around our head;

the most beautiful mosque,
surrounded in the aftermath of terror,
one cornerstore selling chips, pop,
things the villagepeople, can't really afford,
their broken down houses,
me the only one brave enough to use the
hole in the backroom for the bathroom,
girls on the top floor, only men allowed
on the bottom,
dirty, grey, gloomy, broken outside walls,
blue, red, purple, green inside tiles,
carpets, rugs, all invested here.

shocked by the snow
out the window, was i wrong
to equate that we would be in
better weather?

eat sweetly and speak sweetly.

me sitting to the left of the bench
so whoever developed the film would see
where we were, travelling over water,
bored. we just want to party.

my shaky description of the Blue Mosque
barely understood by my companions,
staring, laughing, smiling at my voice,
my face, my accent.

every day us walking up the hill
to the centre of the town
where we used our lira
to buy us random treasures and delicious meals.
by night the twelve of us, all blonde hair
rosy cheeks, and well dressed us,
turning down invitations to every place on
the strip before settling on the doorman
that looked least harmful to our complexion.

the Turkish man proposing marriage
to your tall and feminate frame,
your blue eyes, designer glasses, gold hair,
offering us tea in exchange for some information,
your name, your origin, how good we think
his chances are, in exchange for a rug
that will never fit in our suitcases.

where are all the riots, the bombs, the trouble
we anticipated because of our arrival date,
you crying in the airport
because you're a bit of a homebody,
me with the dagger in my carry on
careful security.

this is where we became friends,

where you chose to stand beside me,
wander through the bazaars in my company,
buying fakes, ashtrays for lovers, evil eyes
for everyone we could think of at the moment.

getting lost in the crowd of chesnut skinned
salesmen throwing candy in our bags, and
reaching their hand out for some money,
promising us good prices on perfume bottles
filled with water.