What You’ve Been Given

They have given you the name Obama
even though it isn’t yours.
The woman slicing cake behind
the counter        her son wheeling through
the market loud when he sees you inside
yourself:   Who is there?
What world do you see?   I want to see.

In the medina        a man offers water        the jug’s
top blotted with tar.   He puts on a jellaba
as it is six.   I am Stevie Wonder     he says
pressing shades over eyes.   He points his eyes
to clouds      rocks head from side to side.
His son plays a stringed instrument
until his fingers are numb.
What is the use of feeling without ardor?
The day to day of it      the woman slicing
cake behind the counter.
You know his son      stand beside him near
a loam wall. Straining horses pass
with scared skin. When they sleep
standing      they are among fruit trees.
Craning necks to bite through white cores.
Crisp        fresh        the sound of surrender.
Obama        let Stevie Wonder take
a picture with Obama.

Myronn Hardy is the author of three books of poems: Approaching the Center, The Headless Saints, and Catastrophic Bliss. He divides his time between New York City and Morocco.
*Photo courtesy of Three Points Kitchen.
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