To an Exile

It isn't that I love you,
since I'd have to love myself.
It isn't that I hate you,
or even hate myself.

But when I think of your probing eyes,
your curious eyes,
your pointed eyes,
and the caramel of your voice (that voice!)
one autumn day at the coffee shop...
When I remember that, well,
I wonder what I feel.

And when we talked of homelands lost,
and distances of memory,
and things to come...
We talked,
and I wondered (I wonder!)
what was behind those eyes.

You didn't order anything at the coffee shop.
I wonder if I ordered too soon.

We met at the store, do you remember?
My hands were full of toaster pastries,
and you asked us to breakfast the next day.
We went.
And for some years
I didn't see much of you.

"All roads lead to Rome," you told me,
once in the Student Center.
You laid yourself across the seats,
because, as you said,
this is America.
And as I sat reading a book on Babel,
I asked you where Rome was.

I didn't think much of it at the time,
although I was pleased you remembered
my name.

Sometimes I wonder what you think of me,
and it makes me hope you don't.

You didn't order anything at the coffee shop.
I wonder if I ordered too soon.

And on a whim I poured out my story,
the story of exile,
the story we shared.
I shared my lost home to the south,
the Spanish moss, steaming palms,
and cool waters.
I shared years in a strange land,
and sleeping far from home.
I knew we shared that scar.

Why did I do that?
Contrary to appearances,
I don't reveal myself often.

You didn't order anything at the coffee shop.
I wonder if I ordered too soon.