Performing fiction

I was asked to dine with a Turkish novelist,

a fine soft shell crab, a yellowfin tuna,

exquisite red wine, and he told me why

in Ankara rarely rain falls, people die

a lot, his cat punishes him for traveling.

I'm poor, I think I may live in Ankara,

which I try to see with my eyes asquint,

watching him, translating thefts, like Robert Bly.

He has invented a wife with grim, sharp smile.

The audience he invents wants history,

but we read our fiction, he in Turk, me in me.

I am incoherent, sure, but perform well.

Silky blondes ask who we are. Money, we hiss.

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Sep 1995
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