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  • Writer's pictureŞarkılara Mektuplar

Stain of pomegranate

Dear Diary;

October 3rd, 2020

Morning. Narlikoy.

I think of the autumn sometimes. That it's an acceptance. And yet I'm grateful. As the pomegranates turn red, the jellyfish letting go of themselves to the shore... As I pass pass through black grape vines, pomegranate trees and geraniums, everything lets go of itself. The best time to rot. "Nature is nature," says a woman's voice bending over the grapes. “My mother must have given birth to me from a sun,” I tell her. From autumn sunsets. While the pomegranates are reddening and not opened yet.

Evening. House.

My left ear is full of wind, my hair is full of salt. When my feet are fluttering and my face is the sun, I come out of the sea with all my strength. As I run through the pomegranate trees along the road, I say wash me, grandma. Wash me! She says, leave yourself to me. Your hair, your chest, your skin. leave it to me. Only she saw the pomegranate cracking in my chest. She was the only one! The desire stuck in my chest. No matter how much water she poured, the stain of pomegranate on my chest did not come out.

Eylem Ejder

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