Two Poems

There's Nobody Here

I heard a myth once about a very greedy man who locked his
sons down in the cellar with the rest of the treasure and animals.

There was a war and there was a flood and all the dead bodies
and rainwater came up to their throats in the very pits of that

building, building tombs of their bodies and space. I do not know
what happened to the man after, only that he was a friend of

my grandfather and they shared their stories. You think a man
cannot exchange tale with debt but I tell you we are no ordinary

men. We have eaten the sparrows and they have taken our lands,
more winged creatures amidst the flame, lanterns breaking in the

night. When we set out I did not think I could put my pride in
your hands. Sputtering creatures still wash up at our feet and during

the summer our ancestors smell of rosewater. When I cannot sleep
in the night now I find the hem of your coat. When I tell the myth to

those I love I search for my home in the arches of their bodies, 
weathered and able, the gilt mirrors of mine. There was a war that

lasted only a day and then again forever. It is still going on. It is
noisy and fickle and pulls through my bloodstream, reaching toward

the mountain. You think a terrible thing is going to happen, and I
tell you it will. Yet we will rise up to meet our ancestors. We will go

home. We will become stories of better men, unlocking ourselves,
reclaiming our names, publishing our fury. We will bury our bodies

in the place where they belong.

I Am So Sorry For Your Loss

Everyone is sick, yes, we know. Everyone that ever existed
is sick right now, in your house, and the laundry is late. At night

when I pull my hair back above my head I imagine pulling
meteors out like threads and becoming very special. I imagine 

a lot of things

alone, because otherwise there is no time left with which to imagine
them. If I brought you to the sea I could cure your ailments. I could

introduce your lips and lungs to salt, to a better way of being. There
are a group of people like me who worry about everything that ever

was like space and atoms and how many times you can order midnight
pancakes at the diner across the street, how many times until it becomes

inappropriate. I try very hard 

to do things the proper way

but all the ways in the world could not take the sickness from your
blood where it has made a nest for its home. All the ways in the world

are casting me aside like the king to his daughter Cordelia, best beloved.
Everyone is sick my darling and yes, so am I. So am I biting shadows down

before the darkness takes us, before our hands become imprints, the
outline of a chasm, of a thing which used to be there.​

ZEYNEP SASMAZEL is a recent graduate of Pace University with a BA in English Literature and Women’s & Gender Studies. She spends most of her time taking pictures of her cat and dreaming of the sea. One day she will have a more impressive bio to flaunt.
The Adirondack Review