You come from a place
Called the Middle East.
I have been taught to hate you
By my evil American step-sister, media.
Like figs, your hands are darker
But so much softer than my very own.
It is because of the dimples, deep and carved and
The way you brush the hair
From the corner of my eye
That makes me choose to overlook
All that is against us.
Instead, I hold hostage the beauty in
The way you grin
Each time you touch the dark of
My pale wonderings.
You terrorize me
With the realization that my
Hijacked heart knows nothing at all
Except the internationally known feeling of
Good bye. I’ll miss you.
When you leave through the back door,
The kitchen, this suburban house, my life
Retracts and recoils and ripples.
With staggering ignorance,
I notice at once
How much taller you are
Than I shall ever be
And how your shoulders lean forward,
Heaving and bent with the weight of
My own country on your back.
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