Minority Poem

In my room, I talk to my invisible guests: they do not argue, but wait Till I am exhausted, then they slip away with inscrutable faces. I lack the means to change their amiable ways, although I love their gods. It's the language really separates, whatever else is shared. On the other hand, Everyone understands Mother Theresa; her guests die visibly in her arms. It's not the mythology or the marriage customs that you need to know, It's the will to pass through the eye of a needle to self-forgetfulness. The guests depart, dissatisfied; they will never give up their mantras, old or new. And you, uneasy orphan of their racial memories, merely Polish up your alien techniques of observation, while the city burns.