after Adrienne Rich



On Wednesdays I take the train past Yankee Stadium,

to a place where it is never a given that I speak the language,

to a place where graffiti covers the mural they painted to hide

the graffiti, to a place where the children call me Miss Miss

Miss Miss Miss and I find in one of their poems, a self-portrait,

the line I wish I was rish. The dream of a common language



is the language of one million dollars, of basketball, of plátanos.

Are the kids black? my boyfriend wants to know. Dominican.

It’s different. When asked to write down a question

they wish they could ask their mom or dad, one boy writes,

Paper or plastic? A girl in the back of the class wants to know

Why don't I have lycene, translating the sound of the color



of my skin into her own language. The best poet

in sixth grade is the girl who is this year repeating

sixth grade. When I tell her teacher of her talent

she says, At least now we know she’s good

at something. To speak their language, I study

the attendance list, practice the cadence of their names.



Yesterday I presented a black and white portrait of a black man,

his bald head turned away from us, a spotted moth resting

on one shoulder. I told them this is a man serving a life

sentence in Louisiana. Is this art? Without hesitation,

one girl said no, why would anybody

want to take a picture

of that.