Pencil thin, pregnant again,
displaying your Dracula teeth,
you watch me from the steps of the great mosque.
Original sin will not be settled today.
If death begins in the eyes,
it is faraway.
But when are your babies due?
Will they be born in the park at night?
Will they be orphans?
You and me, we are strong,
self-sufficient types—herds of one.
Licking your coat,
with high-raised heads and soft tits,
you suffer not, you nomad.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 41 Number 7, on page 36
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