And sometimes I am my brother 
as I lift my chin to signal "No"
the way he learned to do in Turkey,

and sometimes when I slip my foot 
into a shoe I think of the
red scorpions in the jungle

and of the giant rats under the cot 
that kept falling apart in Paraguay 
and of the piranhas.

And sometimes I dream in Spanish
or Guarani, but never in French because 
I know enough to know better,

and I do not buy anything except for 
parsley and scallions and other 
things I need to make tabouli,

and also the ingredients
for the most delicious (and healthy) 
cookies in the world,

and I am he in how I remember 
another side of the story, the one 
that I never tell, the part

I couldn't see, and, circling the Lake, 
wondering about the hawk
who dove down and took his hat,

I am he (days later) when it appears 
in the branches of a tree, and there 
I am, looking up at my hat.