I hated you
because you kept staring
through my mirror
and I hated
your relentless upturned palm
awaiting salvation from your hunger.
I avoided your houses
that stank of piss and sweat and booze
and sex, and the iron scent of fresh-spilled blood.
I feared your tribe –
stooped shoulders standing in soup lines,
bodies huddled under musty blankets,
men gathered with brown bags in parks;
I hated your calloused fingers curled toward me,
beckoning ...
When my earth moved
I scarcely noticed the opening tremors
but then the bricks and stones of home
rained down on me like hail from hell
and a crevasse opened beneath my feet
and sent me tumbling into the earth
and face–to–face with you
Now I share your hunger
and I look at the world through your eyes
my upturned palm awaits your strength and knowledge.
I’ve moved into your house
and, each night, sleep beside you
for safety and comfort.
As I rest on benches
and watch the hurried sidewalk strivers
I comprehend why some hate me –
I keep staring
through their mirrors.
