from my unpublished collection
Ten Sleep. Dark hills. You know the way. The long march of pines over the red cliff's edge. Those streaks of white are limestone, a hundred billion skeletons where the ocean covered everything. You crumble some in your hands. Write your name, a heart, that modern hieroglyphic, then write hers. The Age of Literacy is coming to an end. Who needs to read when stop signs will tell you stop, and everywhere, the voices of everyday objects, beeping, cajoling, while the animals are mute, or speak in tongues we no longer comprehend. We understand them less, have less in common, with each decade, and share only what we haven't taken. Come live with me and be my love, etc. We're more than ten nights out, the journey's far. Ten sleeps from the fort, each sleep a dream you awake from, believing this is the day of arriving, this is real. I sleep 10 sleeps, 1s and 0s and 0s and 1s, 1010100111010000011, you and I, your long hair tangled in my short hair, I dream you're with me and that you said yes, you're with me even now.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First published in The Gettysburg Review
Return to Home Page
images and text © by Alpay Ulku
