He tells me in Bangkok he’s robbed br Because he’s white; in London because he’s black; br In Barcelona, Jew; in Paris, Arab: br Everywhere and at all times, and he fights back. br br He holds up seven thick little fingers br To show me he’s rated seventh in the world, br And there’s no passion in his voice, no anger br In the flat brown eyes flecked with blood. br br He asks me to tell all I can remember br Of my father, his uncle; he talks of the war br In North Africa and what came after, br The loss of his father, the loss of his brother, br br The windows of the bakery smashed and the fresh bread br Dusted with glass, the warm smell of rye br So strong he ate till his mouth filled with blood. br “Here they live, here they live and not die,” br br And he points down at his black head ridged br With black kinks of hair. He touches my hair, br Tells me I should never disparage br The stiff bristles that guard the head of the fighter. br br Sadly his fingers wander over my face, br And he says how fair I am, how smooth. br We stand to end this first and last visit. br Stiff, 116 pounds, five feet two, br br No bigger than a girl, he holds my shoulders, br Kisses my lips, his eyes still open, br My imaginary brother, my cousin, br Myself made otherwise by all his pain.