something jen said

before i go to bed, something nice. i've heard too much of war today. 2-year-old women, 75-year-old girls, raped at unprecedented numbers in the congo. i can't take it. i can't take it. i can't take it.

but something jen said.

it reminds me of a poem a sculpture laid on us in a circle in a small room years ago. five years ago? maybe five years ago. in ypsilanti, michigan. in koho's old raggedy apartment. i brought town club pop. he brought bright eyes. new eyes. very very old eyes. soren was his name. soren the scupture. soren who won the lottery to come to the u.s. soren who wanted to paint and sculpt and forget that he had to live in this place to save his family. we didn't have shoes on. i told him, give a poem, soren. tell a story. c'mon. we're all doing it. now you. yeah yeah everybody said with smiles and laughs. sooooren they whined and laughed into their soda pop or wine glasses.

he was shy. he slouched against the wall like my elder sister's first boyfriend ronny. long arabic curls, brooding ronny. soren didn't brood. he...he...soren says my english is awful.

we'll help you i insist. so he begins by looking at my foot. i tuck it under me, make it invisible.

tell me he says.
if i were to catch you and kiss the
what is the word for soul? he asks.
soul we say.
no he says, the part of the foot the sole. sole we say.
no no he says my english is so terrible. i mean the center.
heart i tell him. do you mean heart?
yes he says. his eyes flash at mine. they bump against each other. i tuck mine in, make them littler, invisible. he looks down. he is shy.
i go again he says.

tell me he says
if i were to capture you and kiss the heart
of your foot
tell me
would you limp to save
my kiss