Day 7-D

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I watched a young Turkish man,

                probably just past his twelfth birthday,

running as fast as his flip-flopped, dirty feet

would take him.

He tore from the tight grip of his father,

                a well-established businessman I suppose,

and desperately, with a bottle of water in his hand,

caught up to a dog sleeping under Ataturk’s statue.

The mud-matted mut,

                a white Labrador now gray and mangy,

perked up to the slap slap slap that

the boy’s shoes made a

as they rushed him towards

the hopeless dog.

As the eager young man,

                anxious to perform his heroic deed,

opened the bottle quickly and nimbly,

his father’s dark eyebrows scrunched,

and he pointed and began to yell

despite his dignity and the people around him.

I could hear him –

                I couldn’t understand him, but

                I knew what he was saying.

“My son,” he projected through the hubbub,

“Don’t touch the disgusting dog.

I will help you feed him later tonight

with some bread and meat and water,

for I, too, love the dog, but I love you more.

Please come back, my son.”

 

So right now I’m like a little buzzed, Joellen has my journal (she wanted to read my piece about Mount Ida after Morgan finished reading “languages,” a poem I’ve been thinking about but couldn’t write until this evening because I was sitting on the ocean and caught the muses in a good mood), it’s late, and I just finished showering and doing laundry. But while in the shower in my slightly drunken stupor, I got this crazy Greek goddess idea about my life and love issues. I’m probably gonna read this tomorrow and wonder what the fuck I was smoking, but here’s

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left to right: Joellen, me, Hannah Maia, Sarah, and Ashley after dinner at the Kismet hotel, which overlooks the Agean

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