Unreal to be asking strangers
about the color
of their discharge
my voice kind
my voice
informal
but without compassion
I don’t recognize it
I am not the one ignoring
not translating
and yet translating how do I determine
whether it has any relevance
that they cut you up nine years ago
and poured petrol into your wounds
for your rash, your cough, your nightmares
how
refrain from embracing
the tears on your face
if I were to cry with you
it would change nothing
no good night’s sleep to offer you
but you with the hirsute chin who cried
from contagious relief
with fortunately not being pregnant
my hand on your arm
one oblivious moment
human
after all
This poem tells me so much about “the other.” Thank you.