Familiar

Eve Lyons

“I just know I’m going to hell,” she says. 

because she can’t help staring

at all the young studious men

wearing kipot.

She’s fascinated, and I don’t blame her,

even though if I were gawking at all the

strong Black men strolling,

she’d be offended.

But I’m staring, too. 

I’m so in love

with the idea that even in this country

where I often feel at war

I can see my own tribe,

recognize it, smile, know that it’s there

whether I show up or not.

In college in Portland, Oregon

I’d wander the mall with David.

It was the only place

he could find dark skin,

even if there were very few

named Morales or Garcia. 

He couldn’t stand to be around

a sea of white faces,

any more than I can live

surrounded by churches

without feeling something choking me.

It’s like coming across a map,

finding your way to

diversity flags and pink triangles

in a city you’ve only known three days.

It’s good to find yourself

far from where you left her.

Eve Lyons is a poet, fiction writer, and playwright,who is living in Boston, MA. She has published in Fireweed,  Labyrinth,  Concho River Review, Barbaric Yawp, Women’s Words,  Woven, Sapphic Ink, Texas Observer, Houston Literary Review, Word Riot, protestpoems, and two different anthologies.