Apr 21
Goreme
AG Pettet
A ripple of flicking eyelids, a rooster’s cry and the call to prayer break through this dusty Islamic morning.
I have been in this room before. The tense jaws and broken crockery swept into corners. Dog snuffling outside the door.
I run, dog at my heels, to the top of the hill where purple grapes hang low from vines rising from the pale earth.
From here you can see the ruins. Columns cut from the rock Walls collapsed displaying doll house interiors, cracked like my skin in the places where I sat up all night scratching.
Ancient religious spaces torn open like an autopsy. Their soul weighed against nature.
