by Sophie Mayer
In the morning, there were no more tears. We had been rendered dry-eyed,
whatever they fired. Mask, milk, veil: our eyes open beneath and unblinking. Burn, yes: at gas and its associations, its membranous insistence. This us is a skin, a sheath for green or trigeminal; porous, vulnerable. Surrounding it. Shout as shield and: spray of air, hair-fine and falling as grass-seed. Sown (from slingshot or peashooter), striking ground and/as galaxy. The hard skin, the wings: we know this flight (street to street to street —
And sleep — two sleeps — millions — curled around — in rocky ground
Then the rain came (again) and seeds re. Called or membered: thin and limber, shooting softness into soil, eating deep earth.Wheat, barley, and chickpeas first brought to hand in our fertile: this bedtime tale of Anatolia. Tulips first grew here, and irises. See(d) our eyes. In each a tree, and we. Winged and skinned and, still, singing.Sophie Mayer was inspired by this photo of Ceyda Sungur being sprayed with pepper spray. Sophie Mayer is the co-editor of Solidarity Park, and three other poetic activist projects: Catechism: Poems for Pussy Riot, Binders Full of Women, and Fit to Work: Poets against Atos. Her most recent collection is signs of the sistership, co-authored with Sarah Crewe and published by Knives, Forks and Spoons.