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For Honey 

Unlike your Father + your Mother

Your other sisters and brother

Neither in Yahweh, Allah, Buddha

Nor any of the other Patriarch do I believe

And yet I grieve – I grieve

For you, or if I were a Jew

At the Wailing Wall, or if I were a monk

In a yellow robe, running in flames

Thru the streets of Saigon, I grieve

Emmet Till’s Mama moaning in the hot

Mississippi afternoon.

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