And I hate myself for it.
But it could be the difference
between whether he comes home
or not.
Half this country
sees beard and thinks
bomb. Thinks Muslim
means murder.
And that half
looks just like me.
Pale and picketing
for a blue-eyed bully.
My lover’s beard grows
long with my worry.
I fear that half
will never half consider
the softness of his smile
that Persians are poets.
The sun rises
in the East.
At night, I run
my fingers through his
beard. The razor of the nightly news
pressed against my thoughts.
Today he is target.
I am trigger.
And I’m not sure I can keep
either of us safe.
The day after the election
my lover tells me: terror
is being caught
in the crosshairs
of a white man’s gaze.
Half this country has eyes
like a loaded gun.
After I ask he turns
to me and says yes,
I am scared
But I will never shave
myself away
so more of this
can grow