In Istanbul

After I pointed with fingers numb from the damp air
that bit like the autumn air I grew up with,
in Boston by the Atlantic,

over the clear counters for baklava,
laughed with the men and watched
the café through its mirrors: hands wrapped

around amber apple tea, scattered newspapers—
I walked back past the fishermen
in the bruised evening mist, alone by the water again.

Maia Evrona