Today's work of art comes from the indomitable Claire, professional writer, cook, and karaokyer.
Istanbul, by Claire Bullen
We wake sucking on the milkfat mornings,
the hour in its last stage of night-bruise.
Like emperors, centuries ago,
who woke to find their jaguars and take
them strolling through the rosebushes.
Now the city wakes with a riot of sheep
in the basement, a dusty football, and
taxis that speed up the uneven hill.
We breakfast like emperors: sucking on petals
in tea and cakes and smoke.
On a ferry over bright-dark Bosphorus,
we fly faster than emperors could dream,
savouring the word like rose candy: Bosphorus,
Bosphorus, Bosphorus, past the blooming
buses that drop their sweating cargo into Asia.
In the evenings, campfires spill across highways
and birds wheel, crazily, around the minarets.
Like emperors, we sharp-laugh into the night
from the vantage of our temporary palaces.
First we are timeless. Then we are cargo.
Big hugs and lots of love,