Taurus Mountains, the fiery air of Mesopotamia; she waits for it to caress her. It doesn’t. The English cousin. But she’s not entirely. Nor Kurdish, or Turkish. A gypsy moth Eurasian belongs in no one’s home with wings that let her fly but she cannot land on the pistachio tree nor the Alder - perhaps the Populus tremula! A daughter of immigrants in limbo - cut - in half carrying the mass of the equator - flying nowhere and everywhere.
Flaws of time
She sits, tied by the burden of her tired limbs the mould of her muscles loses its shape like wax, victim of its own flame. Every summer auntie’s freezer was bursting with strawberry, chocolate and blueberry. Now she is the popsicle staining the rugs she can’t wipe leaving us with loose patterns stillness captive in the frames of her Persian rug.