royal society

Hospitality is obligation for the one who opens the door to an army,
she who is generous deserves to live,
deserves to be mourned.

Hospitality is deserving it,
is despite it all, is a lack of boundary, is receiving
compliments without value,
without your values,
as the disease of harmlessness,
I am declawed.

I am hospitable,
from birth. I invite
without opening my mouth.
I welcome you,
mutely – you don’t need to hear,
it happened already.

I let you narrate my breakfast,
for all intents and purposes. Theorize
the tea I pour for you and me.
My bread becomes science,
kneading an antithesis in my hands –
of your hands.

You know you walked in the door,
what you don’t know is that:
It’s been decided before.

You will translate my poetry to be choppy,
awkward, painfully foreign,
unnatural. Unliterary,
and you will take my sleep-talking,
and make it poetry,
without asking. Skip my sweat,
say it’s in my blood, what matters
and display my intimacy.

I am hospitable and ask for nothing in return,
unlike your rational agency. Write your notes in your notebook,
on the napkins. Pocket the teacups too;
I’ll buy them back from the gift-shop on my way out,
and my name, too.



Alaz Ada is a student from Istanbul. She theorizes her life too much and isn't ever sure what's a poem and what's an essay. She does hope all that is somewhat endearing. 

poetryBarzakh Mag