My hair is not a raven's wing,
A wave of black, a river whose
treacherous shores
you long to explore.

My ******* are no doves: soft and fluttering;
No Promised Land of milk and honey:
there is no one to welcome you home.

My stomach is not a valley of wonders
leading to a treasure so many men
have died for.

My eyes are not slanted windows to some
ancient Eastern wisdom; no obsidian pools
that many great warriors have drowned in.

My features are not exotic
My skin is not silken
My soul is not unknowable
My mind is not inscrutable
And my body is not your muse.

I buried your name in the sand, deep down
where the tidal waves will not touch it.
Where it can't hurt me.

There was a girl
who was carrying flowers on one hot August afternoon,
And whose face you see on the screen today.

I will save my last lines for you
The final sentences
I will save for when we are alone

Miserable little town,
Drowning in your own hate
I won't miss your narrow streets
or your alleys shrouded in darkness.

You say it is humane to make a person stand
with their hands up against a concrete wall
for nine hours in November cold

You say it is humane to put thirty people
in a cell built for four and make them share
one loaf of bread on the third day of their arrest

You say it is humane to make a person sing
the national anthem, and beat them with
batons if they don't know the second verse

You say it is humane to build
concentration camps for political prisoners
Because you’re only protecting your country.

Give me solitude
Give me peace
Give me privacy
Give me space