At the Postal Worker's Flat, Nevsehir | Paulann Petersen

 

At the Postal Worker's Flat, Nevsehir


Hands out, palms 
cupped together, I take 
what Mustafa pours.
Not the simple rosewater 
any other Turk would give me,
no. Mustafa offers
his Ralph Lauren cologne,
a bowlful if my hands
could make a bowl, as much 
as he has, and he would pour—
I'm convinced, as my hands 
overtake my breath once more—
pure perfume if he had 
perfume to pour.


                       —Paulann Petersen

 

Blood-Silk, Quiet Lion Press, 2004



 

© Paulann Petersen, all rights reserved. You may use poems from this website for non-commercial purposes only. Poems must be used in their entirety, including any citations or acknowledgements listed at the bottom of the page. For more information, contact .