I was asked to dine with a Turkish novelist,
a fine soft shell crab, a yellowfin tuna,
exquisite red wine, and he told me why
in Ankara rarely rain falls, people die
a lot, his cat punishes him for traveling.
I'm poor, I think I may live in Ankara
which I try to see with my eyes asquint,
watching him, translating thefts, like Robert Bly.
He has invented a wife with grim, sharp smile.
The audience he invents wants history,
but we read our fiction, he in Turk, me in me.
I am incoherent, sure, but perform well.
Silky blondes ask who we are. Money, we hiss.