I thought I saw
myself
floating above
the bed,

I have never tasted locust-borne starvation,
or been forced to swallow ancient misbeliefs;

I have never run from engine-driven sea waves,
or been thirsty on an island cuffed with reefs.

Potatoes have their ways of lying. Hold one
close to your lips and spit-shine the shit
out of it. Do this in the store, oblivious
to the old ladies’ stares.

I needed a photo of the poet
for the Facebook invite to the poetry reading,
so I Googled her impossible Polish name
(I can say that, having my own impossible Polish name)
searching the thumbnails littering the page like confetti.
A pair of large, firm, breasts appeared, held up
by two graceful, feminine hands.

10 years ago
when black predominated
I knew who I was then.