Get Out:
The Vote

You tell me you’re an alien

Because you think I’m a robot;

Two unnatural creatures, others

By all dimensions—constructed,

Impossible, unfamiliar with the way

A newborn lays her head against

Her mother’s shoulder, confident

It will be there, looking at the light

Coming in the window without permission.

We are both forty, the number of years

Of exile, of manna instead of dates

And saffron, of ordinary wandering

And being expected to have answers.

 

I have answers and I know some are right—

I know you may not believe me without my hand

To hold, without the sound of my voice, coughing

With winter’s first cold. What if you felt welcomed,

What if I could reach through the screen?

 

You didn’t

Have to tell me the truth but you did. You’re not hopeless,

Neither must I be. The sky over the desert is blue, light

And then dark, the baby’s eyes are blue, dark and then light.

She doesn’t stop making noise, even when she is suckled.