Ayaz Muratoglu

An Unwatched Festering
after Laura Riding

The dragon watches the uncluttered landscape
The floorboards see that dark leftover from those who lived here before us
The window sees its catalpa, leafless, under snow
And I my under-bed dust.

As suns see darkening skies
As cartwheels see the underbelly, clouded
As candles hold their lovely wicks,
I cross my vision.

And what wing of all of this?
What precocious dusting?
Dragon—from the Greek root “to see clearly”
doses out of its unmet resting place.

How the cemetery houses birds that disappear
after a single season change?
How the ice cut from this New England pond gets
shipped to India? Who watched it not melt? Not see?

How can frozen water
count its way to the mouth?
How for a morning prayer to dislodge in the throat?
And evening bread to watch the day?

By no other witnesses,
By the oatmeal congealing,
By an unnoticed magnet,
By my closing my eyes to it.

 
 
 
 
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Rabbits

In the dream, you looked at me from a distance
then ran away

Were you thinking of a rabbit?
The diaphanous underside of the slept-in comforter?

In the other dream, we stepped out of the plane
into a large apartment, and you pet the dog in the kitchen

rolled into the next room, carrying a small pelt to your chest
counting steps to the stovetop.

When I found you later, you were crying
and holding a rabbit, saying:

“I thought you had forgotten,”
and when I woke in your arms

all I could remember was your license number,
blinking, bright, on the wet counter.

 
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
 

At Night the Wheel

At night the wheel
covers the beachside
each angle turning in time,
tracing its path along a narrow loop:

At night the wheel
crashes into the water
and carries you, small one, away—
someone watches from the shore.
It is dark and you hold onto the salt for comfort
In the house the slats have glued themselves together,
which sometimes scares you, though not tonight.
Adults in the other room eat and occasionally turn window-side.

At night the wheel
turns
and tracks you: a man stands at the door
looking for stars. It is July and the distances
have begun to change with the seasons.

At night the wheel
loops, its mechanics fading. It smells like plants.
Or your wanting. We wait in line. Do you
tire of me? Or catch the whine as it
pulls from my lips? I’m splitting: you can catch it.

At night the wheel
glows: the lunapark fills
and honey, you’re there, too.
My first contradiction has lost its footing:
I told you this, then that, then this other one again.
You’re on the way to the beach and I’m in a cold room
waiting. I lay something heavy on my chest.

At night the wheel
roasts, an animal on a spit
spinning, Ezekiel’s chariot. God
stuck in the turning spindles. Everyone’s here:
they came from the beach
and are sweaty sandy tired tho in a good mood.
In the yard everyone talks—
someone tells me they went to Midnight Cowboy today
and I would like to see it too.
The yard is full of everyone we know
playing a game and they’re about to go on an adventure
right
it’s a dream.

At night the wheel
spins itself into oblivion:
your ice cream cone melts
my toe gets stubbed
there’s blood
no blood
just tears
do you cry when you get hurt right away? Or just after?
Faltering

At night the wheel
tucks itself into bed. What’s in the bed?
No babies, just legs on top of each other
and kisses.

At night the wheel
breaks the banister open,
then falls into this bouquet of sidewalk flowers.
Can you catch them,
or do you turn away at the smell?

At night the wheel
carries you
through the land of ancient Syria, into concrete that
splits open at the sight of green.
You look after a cat in this space:
zooming.
The sky turns purple and you find yourself at the tall point:
there’s ocean and ballpark and a bridge far off,
a teenager has brought you here and your legs dangle.

At night the wheel
rests
its legs spoken for
and belly rubbed

At night the wheel
dreams of a pool: infinite water chlorinated
everyone splashing.

At night the wheel
counts miles
or ribbons—
or eggs—
or small cakes you get at the bakery around the corner—
or closets—
or ferns—

At night the harbors
gather fern spores in tiny envelopes
tuck them into the small pocket of a shirt.

At night the wheel
compresses
colors into drawers
draws the colors
and you wear black
I wear red
will you? Will I?
It is the hottest day of the year
the longest has passed
you are sweaty
so am I
the water is far
when we get to it
you will pull the horizon closer.

At night the wheel
talks about surgery:
in the water the scars look like angels.

At night the wheel
cannot stand it:
the water takes a human and rocks it.

At night the wheel cruises by the bathhouse,
a new year’s edge blurring under angry tongues
vodka with pickles on the poolside
sparing no indignity the spinning shackles you:
ignorant loss
lights come on across the bay.

At night the wheel
dreams of morning,
a chariot pulled across the sky
kitchen filled with last week’s debris
you arrive late and sweating
Ezekiel carries a promise down
far from Moses, right into your bedroom.
Can you catch it?
The water bottle buzzes,
its insides set to light, arms twisting like Greek trees in the story.
Cloud factories set by those who believe in them

At night the wheel
counts you awake: in the dream your eyes heard me
whispering for more
til you said you’d had enough
a beautiful girl in a red dress
tells you to look outside, then arrives with
pomegranates and not peas, telling you she burned the rice

At night the wheel
harbors a secret about your father
all afternoon I sat in this room in Nebraska, staring at a rusting
sewing machine, watching the moth flap at the window

At night the wheel
misunderstands you
twirls the wrong word in its mouth
forgets its promise to its mother

At night the wheel
collapses: you, with your large sweater and hammer
carrying on with weather
was that it? Your tutu burning, plastic melting in the large
metal container. Singing in the shower won’t fix it,
nor will story of the mermaid, its cousin the seal,
collapsing at the sight of a wave crashing on the shore.
Stronger, then, with nowhere to go.