You decorated with marble elephants,
posters of Coltrane and Miles.
No one mistreated you
so you made us
colonialists--
invited us over for dinner party
tutorials, each course exposed
our ignorance,
demonstrated your native bounty:
we couldn’t understand your otherness.
When I suggested otherwise,
I, Jew,
you said I could always hide.
You couldn’t,
all ways.
Then you got your wish,
married an incredibly kind
clay white man.
You became a subcontinent of your own making—
the other at the breakfast table
and in bed.
Admit you enjoy being occupied, preoccupied,
with who you can’t be,
a place we can’t go.
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