Please Consider This a Poem in Your Native Language Stephanie Humphries For S.V. We were two refugees in Germany five years ago. He was outrunning the Taliban and bad American intel. I was hiding from the trauma of death threats from a purported American spy. What was it about him that made me want more of him? It wasn’t his haircut or overcoat, both black and attractive. Maybe it was his boldness, sitting next to me, announcing how both of us were taking on the U.S. government in our asylum cases. In time, I went to his room at the compound, met his friends. It was there I realized how smart he was. Saying goodbye that evening, seeing his naked feet, remembering a poem about the feet of one’s future husband, I wanted to feel his feet on mine. The Germans flung us in different directions. I landed in Herrenberg, pushing away the African, Pakistani, and German men who came seeking God knows what, maybe a way out. We went to a fair in Strasburg, almost kissed in a park. He wrapped his arms around my neck—.I was not afraid. I stirred his coffee. He waved goodbye as the train pulled away, and I found myself in a car full of drunk English teenagers. How I longed for him to visit me. We would rub our heads together at the temples, erasing all our worries. Squirm our troubles away, then hold each other tight.
Spring 2020 | 47
