on Galata Bridge,
rods bowing and bobbing
like suppliants at a vizier’s audience.
Each fisher has his own space program,
elbow room, bait bucket,
like this sleeve-tugging city. I’m
for the fish, somehow. Down there
there’s piscine stitching of continents: Europe – Asia,
ferries and fish restaurants. Crossing
I pass between poles
of then and now,
a fish caught
in a rip of time, the zip of bait, the
howl of hook in mouth, it flips me
onto this bridge and off, too scrappy a catch,
victim of cheap jet fuel and wanderlust.
If you enjoyed this poem, buy the issue
Overland is a not-for-profit magazine with a proud history of supporting writers, and publishing ideas and voices often excluded from other places.
Subscribe | Renew | Donate November 9–16 to support progressive literary culture for another year – and for the chance to win magnificent prizes!