By Carl Boon
The most significant things happen
while you are flossing:
a whisper of war in the capital,
a troop movement at the border
shrouded by dark.
The arrival of a message
you've been waiting for, a simple
wavelength of light on your silenced phone.
She is beautiful and you think
you're in love with her.
The splitting of your neighbor's
aneurysm, her fall from the couch,
the HaberTürk anchor droning on
about political maneuvering. A suicide
by cop in Compton, California,
the boy's mother weeping,
the question Why? on her lips.
Wedding vows said in Japan,
the Sapporo afternoon Saturday
alive with cherry blossoms and a child
gazing at his new mom. 177 ounces
of high-grade hashish seized
in the basement of the house
you grew up in. It had been hidden poorly
in the hollowed-out wall
behind the portrait of your uncle.
Carl Boon lives in Turkey, where he teaches courses in American literature at 9 Eylül University. His poems appear in dozens of magazines, most recently The Maine Review and The Hawaii Review. A 2017 Pushcart Prize nominee, Boon recently edited a volume on the sublime in American cultural studies.