I resolve to learn French–that way I can
communicate with most of the people
in these Americas, from Belmopán
to Belmont, MA, from root to steeple:
I'm of the earth and of man, and I want
to reflect this with a wide-eyed vision,
with a four-forked tongue, here sharp and there blunt,
and a clear conception of my mission:
Ours is a creole culture, a gumbo
or perhaps a poutine or some ox tails,
or, better yet, maybe it's mofongo…
Whatever: digestion is where hate fails:
And me? I'll learn to chef for all palates,
from cap-à-pie, from conch shells to shallots.

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