standing behind the prime minister,
scanning the crowd for assassins and suicide bombers?
Is that you in a pair of dusty slippers,
picking up body parts
and shaking your olive fists at the sky?
Is that you in a mask on the scaffolding,
wrapping a white scarf
around the dictator’s neck?
Is that you waiting for work by the bus station?
Is that your head in a ditch outside of town?
Is that your voice yelling out my name
as an American soldier presses his boot to your throat?
Is that your kitchen? Your wheelchair?
Your terrified brown eyes?
Do you remember teaching me to dance like Michael Jackson
in the stairwells of Moscow, our cigarettes burning
on the porcelain windowsill?
Do you remember our silent moves in the hotel lobbies,
with no music, an empty overturned hat at our feet?
Do you remember how we never said goodbye?
Did you realize we would live forever?