In the air to Istanbul.
To remember it better.
A short trip.
I get out of the the underground and
move a little in a different direction.
Completely lost but for a moment.
There is a farm a sign which is the head of a donkey.
Not a horse.
And the modern station, on second glance
has truncated into three, old-fashioned tracks.
Where is everyone?

the group assembled around a table.
Mechtilde is there but I don’t know the others.

They present their work and at some point
we discuss my 4d project.
How to take several pictures from one.
How to simplify.

A woman starts showing her abstract yet representational
piece, a strange image, which becomes brown.
Computer generated steps appear.
I don’t like those and she says.
Those are my favorite I respond politlely.
Say…we should have a show.
Maybe back in Istanbul (it looks different in)

We move towards our lodging. I am staying with Mechtilde
in an indescript place.. away from the action.
Are these little green houses away from action too?
An old woman with a black scarf
begins to carry suitcases — oh, yes, we can do it.
We are making plans. The first day, relax a woman says
The activity is for tomorrow.
But we are only here til Saturday.
Trying to remember more clearly Istanbul and the conference.

Dinosaur Egg Has Me Steal a Car


Margaux is pregnant and her egg is in a shoebox on the top shelf.
I take it down, cradling the small pouch to warm it–
the time is coming.
Small and cold, I peek for signs of life,
the rise of breath, but the skeletal pterosaur,
arms spread eagle, seems too still.

Untying the thin thread anchoring the body to the
thin shell, unthreading the knot carefully,
I cut the little creature free and cradle her in my hands.

A movement, a breath.

Pressing the flat dry mouth against Margaux’s breast
which suddenly doubles, then triples in size
like a dried mushroom emerged in water until,
fattened and plump, a small mouse,
the healthy baby suckles.

Strange, I think, eyeing her puffed-up fur, soft
but, wasn’t Margaux a real baby?


I get out of the car.
A man get’s in, and by my side
watches as I maneuver badly, running off the road.
I am going to be g caught.
I have no license, the car isn’t mine, I just took it.
I can’t believe I am in this mess, and everyone will know,
there is no escape —,
if only I had
left the car where it was.


Back and forth searching for my purse,
while the detective and his squad monitor me.
Police, like peasants, weaving through this space and plot–
first a pottery studio, then a bakery,
next a factory–, nothing modern.

Perhaps if I explain that I needed the car
because my daughter had a baby and I had to help her.
Oh, I will be a doting grandmother, then.

The men don’t threaten but I am not free.
My mother appears briefly, as she is, a bit confused,
making a point.


Back at my place, a large expanse.
Shared with 2 men who might be lovers.
Navigating the noise, the light, the care-taking,
the baby and Margaux.


I don’t remember much.
So much movement and commotion
But the little still body emerging from the egg.
That sequence is clear, potent.

Foreign Lands

The spaces shift, the path adjusts.
Among the people, I am foreign
looking for the women’s baths,
caught with pants falling.

Red lips beckon and I walk straight.
We kiss. Twice.
Then introduce ourselves.

She has been working here a few years.
I am passing through, but even so,
something gained is something else learned,

I think about Istanbul.
My mother appears
reciting rat a tat tat detail,
I wish she’d stop so
I could tell her

about me.


Pale Bodies

As I walked through the room
towards the door out, wondering
how she could monitor so calmly
the bodies which lay pale, one next to the other.
White skin, white hair, a few tufts startle in their starkness,
some small teeth on the gum above the others.
Watching closely the no breath, the still still.
Suddenly, a chest rises. Next, a large man
has appeared, with dark hair and a pony tail.
He opens his eyes, briefly, they drift shut.
Is this how then, they come to die.
Lying in wait, going?

Bits and Pieces

Michael was putting lipstick on.


Our father glancing. .

My legs unshaven, flowing with hairs.

Hairs sticking out of my knuckles. Fingers, toes.

A queen, somewhere, briefly.

In the Studio

I let the wooden beads fall into a curtain of separation,
walking back, in, there.

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