It’s OK

Not unlike us.
Not unlike us.

A man of brittle sticks

With sun-starved complexion,

Except in the face

And perhaps the hands,

Enters my home from

Someplace I might have

Remembered from geography

Had I not been writing

Love letters in my workbook.

He sits at my table

And I offer him meat to eat

And tea to drink,

Which he accepts hesitantly

Eyes darting around

As if tied by string

To a fly in the room.

I offer more but

He refuses my kindness,

And I push back

With full heart and

Stern eyes to offer again,

But all he says is

“It’s OK, it’s OK.”

No one really understands

What someone else

Means when they put

Something into

Our atmosphere;

Everyone has their own eyes

And their own ears

That they don’t share

Very often

Because they don’t know how.

There’s nothing really new

About this new person,

Just like the rest in how

Dissimilar he is,

But so very different

In how he is different

From me.

Composed 06/26/2012

Author’s Note: I decided to write about myself from the eyes of my Mongolian family. I’m not sure how successful I was in gaining insight into how they view me, my world, and their world, but it was interesting to remove myself from myself for a while.

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