I am not. Two weeks or more since a call. To be in America,
You must see American, close your eyes and dream American
The nightfield a neon strip of expensive English and rescued women,
You must greed American, clasp your palms and plead American
Distance of prayer: falling dimes in faith, to count the green you’ve got
To bend your knees and beg, bow your head and need American
The flowered parts of me pushed back to soil. To reroute the roots, to earn
A plot in blooded ground— six-feet-deep anything not seed American
Tonight, the neighbours hear me weep, and pull down their blinds,
I pull my lines, I pile my lies, I pale my life to bleed American
I pick up at last, her voice on the other side asking Sanam, Sanam…
A word I once knew the meaning of, before I could only speak American
