He tells me in Bangkok he’s robbed <br />Because he’s white; in London because he’s black; <br />In Barcelona, Jew; in Paris, Arab: <br />Everywhere and at all times, and he fights back. <br /> <br />He holds up seven thick little fingers <br />To show me he’s rated seventh in the world, <br />And there’s no passion in his voice, no anger <br />In the flat brown eyes flecked with blood. <br /> <br />He asks me to tell all I can remember <br />Of my father, his uncle; he talks of the war <br />In North Africa and what came after, <br />The loss of his father, the loss of his brother, <br /> <br />The windows of the bakery smashed and the fresh bread <br />Dusted with glass, the warm smell of rye <br />So strong he ate till his mouth filled with blood. <br />“Here they live, here they live and not die,” <br /> <br />And he points down at his black head ridged <br />With black kinks of hair. He touches my hair, <br />Tells me I should never disparage <br />The stiff bristles that guard the head of the fighter. <br /> <br />Sadly his fingers wander over my face, <br />And he says how fair I am, how smooth. <br />We stand to end this first and last visit. <br />Stiff, 116 pounds, five feet two, <br /> <br />No bigger than a girl, he holds my shoulders, <br />Kisses my lips, his eyes still open, <br />My imaginary brother, my cousin, <br />Myself made otherwise by all his pain.<br /><br />Philip Levine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/baby-villon/
