I’m exiled in a country
between two great waters
where tornados churn houses
into toothpicks, a mall
that used to grow corn.
Lunch-time I serve french fries
a uniform disguise
with few requirements
nodding yes or no
until I disappear
into my own first language
questions dissolve
shapeless dreams
of my father and mother still in the old country
whose shores I may not cross.
Achilles, my husband in make-believe,
why didn’t you remove the knife
from my father’s hand, prevent
his etching my throat in sacrifice?
Hoped you’d divine
what I could not ask — defy a nation
gathered for history’s recital.
So what became of our bravery?
You killed in battle, and I
behind an altar of oil.