A Poem by Philip Metres

My neighbor’s handshake is firm, his black kippa’s clipped close to
his scalp, hair ruffling in the wind. With plastic rake, I’m scaring the
final evidence of fall from my drive. So why can’t my daughter play at
your house with your daughter? I say, trying to understand. His smile
winces. My wife, he says, she grew up only around our kind. I look
away, not wanting to salt the pain. I think we’re generous to others,
he says, trying to explain. Not like the Arabs. Looking back up, I see
the redheaded soldier at a West Bank checkpoint my Arab father
engaged in conversation. You’re from Brooklyn, what are you doing
here?—each of them could have asked the other. My checkered
keffiyeh hangs in the closet, visible only to me. White flakes descend.
He talks around the awkwardness. I scrape the last dead leaves. The
Arab in me still wants to invite him in for tea. The American in me
wants the Arab to turn and disappear in the falling snow.

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From Shrapnel Maps by Philip Metres. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press. Copyright © 2020 by Philip Metres.