To be a dog, or a grown up. Or to be

a penguin. Aiden, who is now five,

has this power. To dive in to

an imagining so real, he becomes

the thing. He is angry at his mother

when he is forced to wear underpants.

Penguins don't wear underpants, Mama.

I told you, I am a penguin today.

He is your nephew, your heart, your moon.

And you are not five or fifteen. You are

not even twenty five, not by miles.

Now, you must dive in.

To be forty one.

To be a woman, brown woman in

this land uncertain about its new skin.

Brown woman in this world

the old man is unprepared to see.

What is the power that you hold

in this new brown world?

Is it your sex? Is it your skin?

Imagine a Sunday at its best. All

sunshine and blossoms. Imagine

all voices raised, all sights on high.

Now imagine the pulsing. Your heart.

Your heart.

"What is the power that you hold in this new brown world?"

(Published in “Paris Lit Up,” a French poetry anthology.)