Nur Turkmani

Epilogue As Preface

Suppose the nightmare happens

your library on fire   pages burning    commas ashed

suppose the shrapnel   the haze

suppose it is the last day and there isn’t a shelf to lean on

what remains?

not the buildings and billboards

the spice jars   the whisky that never spoils

not an olive or an orange   not our mouths and names

not doom   or this moment  

only memory

barely an image   colour of the sea  a deepest blue

your voice   which is mine and smiling

I almost hear it   it is telling me to cross—

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