Lacking Turkish
You’re asleep in your own life,
breathing shallow as a brook
dripping over ledge. Your mind
claims a universe large enough
for comfort, small enough to fit
the pocket of your old bathrobe.
I’d suggest we visit Istanbul,
which we’ve never seen. But you
would rather drive north and stare
at the Quebec border where snow
drifts impartially from here state
to there. Like me you’re dreaming
of cities without citizens
or adequate parking, strange
rituals forming in clouds
of nebulous gases, chanting
of invisible choirs. Maybe
all those cities are Istanbul
or its near suburbs. Lacking
Turkish, we fail to hear
colloquial voices exclaiming
phrases we’d savor with both ears,
helping place us inside ourselves
and, at the same moment, outside.
.
Fresh Water or Salt
The massive pistons of sleep
pound and pound at me, forcing
the night sky through me, sparking
narratives shaped to combat
the frustrations of every day.
A teaching fellow at Princeton
can’t find a place to park his car.
His class starts in minutes, students
already seated, poised to learn.
He drives in all directions
and wanders far from the campus.
Unfamiliar landscapes flicker.
The sea flaunts its green horizon.
He begs for help from women
basking on surf-washed ledges.
They refuse and he drives inland
to a lake people think bottomless.
He considers drowning himself
but can’t choose fresh water or salt,
their promises equally cruel.
Too late for class, he walks miles
back to the campus, his blond head
semi-detached from his body,
his face a pudding gone bad.
He isn’t me, but I wake us both
with a start, my cat peering into me
with pity for a dream life only
clumsy, two-legged people need.
© William Doreski
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Cloud Mountain (2024). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.
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