Minority Poem
In my room, I talk
to my invisible guests:
they do not argue, but wait
Till I am exhausted,
then they slip away
with inscrutable faces.
I lack the means to change
their amiable ways,
although I love their gods.
It's the language really
separates, whatever else
is shared. On the other hand,
Everyone understands
Mother Theresa; her guests
die visibly in her arms.
It's not the mythology
or the marriage customs
that you need to know,
It's the will to pass
through the eye of a needle
to self-forgetfulness.
The guests depart, dissatisfied;
they will never give up
their mantras, old or new.
And you, uneasy
orphan of their racial
memories, merely
Polish up your alien
techniques of observation,
while the city burns.
