Maybe I’m a fool holding two threads, one black, one white, waiting for dawn to tell them apart. But I’m only practicing my religion which I neither borrowed nor stole. Maybe I’m a fool thinking of a better answer than the transplant patient who said I’m sorry someone had to die.
No, I haven’t outgrown my tongue. It’s a coat your mother gives you, crimson or cobalt blue, satin inside, the collar wide enough to cover your whole neck. All winter you wear it then spring comes but never goes. That’s Arabic to me. I wear a white shirt now— thin gray stripes, top button gone— and it fits.
(1995, Volume 17.4)