for pots and pans, why are your cupboards bare,
your bed bedecked in foreign fur, why are
your color-covered floors so old?
I say: I make my home with gypsies
When they chide: why do you look
so wild, your hair afire, and flower
skirts and tattered shirts, at every scene
your eyes a coal-rimmed green? I say:
I learned my look from gypsies
When they complain: why do you sing
odd tunes of wolves, and birds that fly
across full lands and frothy seas, why
do you not hold still for due decrees?
I say: my child has played with gypsies
But when they hiss:
your restless blood—thick muck—
will choke your veins, will travel
as a poison to your brain, I laugh:
my heart beats big like a gypsy's
And when they howl: how come
you're gray, yet all your face is lit
with glee, your wrinkles hold the mist
of every body's history? I say:
my soul is that of gypsies
