You may

~after Adrienne Rich

You may be reading this poem in your white robes,
having walked the street of your mosque smiling,
still reeling after the muscled man on a motorcycle
yelled, “Go back to your own fucking country!”
You will not wear your white robes on the street again.

You may be reading this poem in a community college
classroom, texting under the table to your mother
at home smoking meth, and you are worried
she will become you before you become this poem.

You may be reading this poem on a screen
after smoothing a Romney sticker on your garage refrigerator,
dreaming of fags falling off the San Andreas fault.

You may be reading this poem next to your sleeping lover
whose breasts spread differently than yours, empty.
The book sits on your chest. Words fall and lift. She stirs.

You may be reading this poem years after leaving
your children, and you know these lines will never heal them.

You may be reading this poem instead of praying
to a wifeless god, unable to sleep, too old for a young love.

The words keep you awake, black needles stitching
us all together, we who don’t belong to each other.

2012