Au Bon Pain

The girl behind the counter comes

from Africa, the woman pointing to a raisin scone

she has no word for comes from the Orient,

and I—watching the Black girl refuse to comprehend

the Asian woman—come from people who

fear each other, who have silenced me

now when I should speak, should say scone

or Remember she too is human.

Once, in the Gare de Lyons, my friend Elaine

asked which train to take. The Information woman

shrugged, said she knew no English.

I curse you, Elaine said. Someday you will be

lost in a country where you do not know

their language, and no one will help you.

And I am all these women, the helpless and the one

who will not help, my words wound

around my throat, veiled pleas to be heard,

understood, and curses so flinty they cut

my flesh. We want bread, yes, and the word

for bread in any world. Then, someone

to tell us the way home.

Published in the Emily Dickinson Award Anthology