She said I'd limited myself
to picking up the pieces.
But what shards! Cobalt
blue, iridescent and bold
Yellows that shone
from miles away in a boulder-
strewn desert hot with shame.
We do not apportion blame;
it does not solve
a problem unsolveable.
These little fragments
chipped off lives
from which to make new lives.
Mosaics cemented
on your mother's brick
patio, somewhere in a Texas
now jarring and alien
to you -- you, accustomed to
modest olive women in chador.
These girls back in the world
are brassy and loud.
They make you blush.
So I, your little faggot sidekick,
will show you something crafty:
a pattern guided by Allah, quietly
made of brilliant splinters in a shaded garden.
Our secrets will be ours,
between us and the heaven that awaits.
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