tonight, the citizens of Kabul
eat dinner, if they have it.
They chew slowly, trying not to listen for
the sounds of this one guy
trying to kill this other guy.
they make soft conversation.
This is not who they are. This is not
who we are.
boom, and
every face is foreign,
everyone is far from home.

*

in the Appalachian foothills
tonight, Aisling is singing
her ABC's. Her mother's eyes blur
with relief. what does the doggy say,
she asks her daughter, who is not deaf,
not autistic. Woof. what does the kitty say.
Cookie.
laugh.
Every day, Aisling learns a new word,
she is travelling from a faraway land, every day.
Soon, she will no longer remember
her native tongue. She will understand
that there are a thousand ways to say, please,
a thousand reasons.
We are thrilled. There are
parties. She is not deaf, she is not
autistic. She is one of us.

*

meanwhile Josh
is lost
in a land without winter.
He does not eat, he cannot
remember to. He cannot
think about the future,
because his Maryland body
is five years old again, tucked into
tiny crevices-- the bathroom, the stranger, the studio,
friends' couches-- and it is confused
by the lack of snow.
It does not understand where it is.
Josh only barely
does.

*

I
am visiting my parents' home for
the weekend. there are homemade oatmeal
cookies, and hamburger tomato snot
and movies. I wonder if this place will ever
feel unfamiliar, even when other people
take root, when I have to knock and ask
permission to enter. When I belong
to some place else.
I jerk away from my father's mouth
when it touches my neck. I press my palms
against the wall.

*

What is going on?
What is happening?
We are becoming
better people.