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The Fisherman’s Catch

Roxanne Noor

Updated: Jan 6




At the end of the Lycian trail

An old fisherman makes Turk chai over a fire

He’s lived in a sodden tent on Çayagazi Beach

Since he left his wife for the great outdoors


Sometimes the old fisherman is lonely 

This is the cost of peace 


The fisherman has bowing wrinkles of wisdom

Sturdy bones and a stony face

Hair bleached from sun and age


In the mornings we sit on his wooden boat

Throw nets into the turquoise water

Smoke hybrid weed and wait

Patience is earned as time marches on


In the afternoon the net gets heavy

Teeming with anxious life

The old fisherman pulls out a world

A world within a world 

Slithering black snakes of water

They gleam in the rainbow halo of sun

Viper eyes

Yellow jasper stones

A thick slug of body


At night we chew the eel

Tough and salty bites

I chew and I gag

I cannot unsee their bodies squirming for life

Petrified and dazzling 

Soon to be humbled by death

Shoved through a skewer

Aquatic souls sink

Down to frayed weeds and red pebbles


The fisherman puts another serving on my plate


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