untitled    mary salome


I am from nowhere
I have no people
I have no homeland, no language, no temples
no roots, no river, no sky
no tree, no landmark, no national food.
I have no name, no group, no way to comb my hair
no gestures, no costumes, no place to put my shoes.
I'm not part of your make-believe family
I can't be a pilgrim to your holy places.
I am impure, I am unclean
I am the mixing of blood
expelled from the belly
by a body that knew me
as a disease.
Bury me in
cold wet clay
without a marker.

Since writing this poem over ten years ago, I have had the good fortune to become part of a community of other "gay-rabs." Thanks largely to this community, I have learned to become my own homeland, my own river, and even my own national food. Watch for the recipe in the forthcomimg anthology, Eating Yourself Alive: Recipes from Imaginary Homelands. OK, I made that up, but doesn't it sound good?

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