Two summers from now
she'll have learned how to back-float,
and will drift out past the boat called Reyhan,
unconcerned with jellyfish, who's waiting for her
on the shore. For a moment
she'll consider not floating back, not
caring whose birthday it is, if the cake
has strawberries or pineapple
or caramel lace made cursive.
She'll have fallen in love
with being carried away, a practice
for more sinister beings later--
farther, deeper, faster. Her skin
will have tightened against her waist,
her hips impossibly slender swivels
of bone. Beyond Reyhan
and even beyond the buoy,
she'll be breathing skyward
no sky at all but planets and stars.
Carl Boon lives and works in Istanbul, Turkey. Recent or forthcoming poems appear in Posit, The Tulane Review, Badlands, JuxtaProse, The Blue Bonnet Review, and many other magazines.