March 19, 2024
Earth’s Crust
On the train
to the plane
all I
could think
about was concrete.
I like
the way they turn
when they’re still
in the trucks. For
something
to constantly be moving or risk
separation… My grandfather,
after some years, became
a concrete
man.
Working, turning
the cone, so
more
buildings could be built,
so my mother could run
away from her grandfather at the beach.
He used to put
ointment on in public. I used to live
on the 14th floor, tending
to my ways
and special laziness.
An afternoon
to sink, my roommate
and her special
bread.
After the earthquake,
I slept with my passport under my pillow.
Smearing. On our walls were two small cracks,
through which I could see a
graying snow,
a precipitation of noise.
Nothing, really.
We were lucky.
Sometimes, we left.
The floor would shake in shock.
My roommate always felt
it first.
See the neighbors huddling
outside, the pipes sticking
out from the walls.
Construction became a thing
to hold. Pliant.
The waiting became miraculous,
or its total opposite.
There must be a builder of
hope, and a knock, too. In
Azerbaijan, there is a museum
dedicated to the architect and oil
baron Musa Naghiyev,
who had a
goal of building 100
buildings in Baku,
and died after the 99th. In my sleep, I used to turn
and
turn, fold over
memories like splashing
oil in the pan, beans
beige
and warm. Oozing. Now I lie
there
completely still.
Skin drying.
Preternatural. S
et—
Yagmur Akyurek was born in Turkey, raised in Massachusetts, and now lives in Brooklyn, New York. She is pursuing an M.F.A. in creative writing (poetry) at New York University, where she is a Rona Jaffe Fellow.