| here among them the dead the others the aliens I see you without coke bottle glasses a wavy comb over your nose buried inside a notebook over- flowing with strange sightings men and women without a homeland a library to shelve histories dreams the names of rare flowers fruits baby names exiled from their villages learning to say hello with accents thick with nostalgia for their purple planets here UFO sightings aren’t so spectacular border crossing is quintessentially american universal crowds gather in squalid ghettoes where every country is a city every city is a verse & every verse echoes “Those Winter Sundays” where a New World opens up where all the martians are welcome at the writing table with their fountain pens & swollen digits & you whispering what took so long? Copyright © 2015 by Abdul Ali. Used with permission of the author. |
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