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.

If you can hold your gas when all about you
Are venting theirs and blaming it on you
If you can sip your tea while others watch you,
But make allowance for their slurping too;
If you can hang out clothes when skies are cloudy,
Or mouth a curse but don’t say it aloud,
Or being cut up, don’t give way to Audis,
And yet don’t look too tense, nor seem too proud: