SOMEWHERE THE LAND
MEETS THE WATER
I can't go anywhere, because I
am neither an American nor an
immigrant : just dwelling in some
gray-land in between. I'm bored.
These categories bother me. My
blood runs cold where it should
be Italian-hot; my Israeli linkage
to Abraham is a bust.
-
Five hundred different qualms
inhabit my doubtful loins : my
back is strong and my manhood
still joins whatever I connect it
to. Is any of this right? Do I need
pay taxes, to you? The designated
census form that claims me claims
me male and white and steady.
-
They should only know how much
I keep at the ready : My Lexington
and Concord fury, my Chickamauga
resistance, my Omaha Beach affront.
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