Mohamed knocked and asked “can I live here?”
And he received gray stares, for we weren’t warned
The college dropped him at our flat, this guy
with stubble like a coalminer, this Mo
And he prepared his meals as though for four
Maqluba spread on a torn garbage bag
When Troy and Greg deferred, he brought in friends
A Saudi gave a hand to shake, closed-fist
This was a year before I read Sacco,
Twelve years before I saw “Free Palestine”
written in chalk on campus walks, six months
Before the girl from Dearborn shared my glance
Mo’s visa was revoked. He plotted to stay
by marrying a woman that he met
at Walmart. When he showed her to me, he
asked, “Is she good looking enough to wed?”
The most I saw of him was when he cheeked
a bite of ham sandwich, asked, “is this beef?”