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


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