This poem is taken from PN Review 185, Volume 35 Number 3, January - February 2009.
Six PoemsPrayer
Grant me a little child
I can hide
When the mullahs come home to pray,
When planes are birds of prey.
Someone
Smaller than my thumb
I can put in my pocket and run.
Refugee
Who can tell her identity?
The gold, the silk mattress, such stuff
Are noble and yet not enough:
Where is the blasted pea?
Immigrant
It hurts to walk on new legs:
The curse of consonants, the wobble of vowels.
And you for whom I gave up a kingdom
...
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