Nur Turkmani

Hamra

The bakery opens.

‍

Bread rises like lungs.

‍

I know this neighbourhood

‍

the way one recalls a dream:

‍

blue-eyed cats and rubber tree.

‍

I tell the hairdresser,

‍

it’s time for a chop,

‍


which means I want to love again.

‍

He says to return later

‍

so I walk to the sea’s blue mouth,

‍

its yellow forehead,

‍

this haze of pollution.

‍

Such determined generators.

‍

What keeps us awake?

‍

Bread and blade.

‍

This machine of ordinary beauty.

‍

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