& SO I CLIMBED by EKİN AYDOĞDU

& so i climbed the fig tree in my grandparent’s
backyard, so i sat there the entire summer of 
my sixteenth year, ate nothing but figs –
               unripe, overripe, hard, soft, juicy,
               sweet, sticky, cracked open like my
               palms on sunday morning
 

& so my teeth rotted brown, so i wasted away, so 
the wind traced the lines of my ribs 
                       instead of your lips
so my eyes turned purple and black, so my limbs were
more tree-branch than teenage girl, 
 
so my hands sprouted leaves, 
             so the hair on my legs, the fuzz above my lip, 
so i forgot words and spoke the tongue of
the august wind instead –
 
so what? so what?

 

—–

EKİN AYDOĞDU is from a small country in a small planet in a small corner of the dazzling cosmos. They are perpetually marvelling at the fact of their existence and try to honor it by creating small & beautiful things.

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Vagabond City Literary Journal

Founded in 2013, we are a literary journal dedicated to publishing outsider literature. We publish art, poetry, and creative nonfiction from marginalized creators.

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