Poetry by Sarp Sozdinler
You learn the lesson on a Friday,
between the canned peas and the baking aisle,
how the body is a sequence of hinges:
jaw, shoulder, the ache at the wrist
that comes from too much holding on.
You remember: the hummingbird
your brother carried home in his hands,
its heart rattling a Morse code
of apology, its wings
already dreaming themselves into absence.
There’s a science to letting go—
a way to close your palms without breaking
the thing you meant to save.
There’s an art to the last look,
to the gentle snap as something unfastens
inside you. Mercy is a muscle,
practiced only in private.
Later, you’ll touch your chest,
feel the soft thunder under your skin,
wondering what it means
to carry something so alive,
so easily outgrown.
Sarp Sozdinler has been published in Electric Literature, Kenyon Review, Masters Review, Trampset, JMWW, and Normal School, among other journals. Their work has been selected or nominated for anthologies including the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and Wigleaf Top 50. They are living and working in Philadelphia and Amsterdam.
Arcturus 