May 15, 2013

Central Anatolia

Written by Lea Marshall

Read by Johnathon Williams

We drove the honey road, a seller at each
curve with dark jars on shelves aslant, dark
sticky jars with lids screwed down, an afterthought.
The same six jars, same three shelves for miles
the same dense honey from centuries of bees
with furrowed brows, luscious dark of all the eyes,
veil dark until the angled sun cut amber through the glass
and we stopped and tasted slow thick beads of it
glowing down our throats. Next field over
the woman hefting marble on her back, Apollo’s
steps now the foundation of her hut, the jar
wrapped in paper in our trunk and then, remember
Konya? Walking backward in a hallway filled
with strangers all in reverse, we faced the holy
man’s remains until we left the filigree of his tomb,
shuffled out heels first, barefoot and there
was the carpet with tulips upside down, some colors
still breathing, springing back beneath our feet —
indigo preserves its wool, where walnuts’ brown
oxidizes, rots to the foundation so the woven
landscape changes over decades, growing
wastes of dust amidst stubbled fields of blue.

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