Istanbul

For A.P.V.


She sautés potatoes in coats
the colour of, she imagines,
wet Turkish sand, spreads cheese
on apples in anticipation
of weeks of only feta
from the Istanbul market. As she waits
for the brunch guests, the word Tuesday
sings through her head, in tune
with the kettle, the dove
perched on the fence. A packing list
of the familiar: the orange kitchen,
the varnished bulk of serving dishes,
the fretful bark of her father's dog
at the crunching gravel in the driveway
as they arrive to see her off, to eat,
to take her aside in the kitchen for a hug
and an everything will be different now,
which becomes the new chorus in her head on Tuesday
as her plane rushes forward into sky.

Four months. Four
months of emails
instead of dinners
out, but here she is,
feet in a sea
blue as her mother's
pottery, tasting
of saltwater and sticky
dates, his mouth
at her ear, his arms
at her waist, stronger
than the compass-pull
of her northern home.
Istanbul has released
him and now
they drift across the continent,
the only familiar thing
his body, the only familiar
sound the rattle of their next train.