
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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