Whiskey Light

Istanbul left its stamp on me.
That Earth chemistry like
Fireflies trapped in a brittle, glass jar.

Everything is a shade of orange there --
The dirt, the broken landscape
Rising like bones stacked forehead to ankle.

He could not remember, wandering
Through the splintered horizon,
That they call it Constantinople.

It is an Eastern Paris struggling
To breath, choked by rebel dust.
I locked my fingers in his --

Guided him through the market.
Spices, crude linens, British teacups,
Children barefoot and bleeding.

We were poisoned by the
Rusty frames of photos --
Memories damaged by dawn and whiskey light.

The city’s aureole burned itself in my retinas,
Became the last pattern
On a white, cotton T-shirt.

-- Jessica McMichael