Guilty as privilege. To be here where you should be. But not here.
Weighing kofte bari, çemen otu behind the splint-fillings of Yeni
mosque. No words for no word from the
smuggler broker. To call.
Not to call. To be left waiting on the end of the line. To uselessly
pull apart Kurdish rugs, haggling over prices as they price you up.
Money rots. Your elders are cashed out/into the unravelling bribe.
Call it what it is. Wary over WhatsApp [Delete this………Delete].
Red blush tomatoes slip too easily down the throat. Mesopotamian
host eyes up the cost of an oil truck stuttering across the Bosporus.
You are crammed around your uncle’s TV watching Premier League
re-runs . . .