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.