The Fifth Dream: Bullets and Deserts and Borders

    A man is walking toward me.

    He is alone.

    He has been walking through the desert.

    He has been walking for days.

    He has been walking for years.

    His lips are dry

    and cracking

    like a piece of spent soil.

    I can see his open wounds.

    His eyes are dark

    as a Tanzanian night.

    He discovers I have been watching

    though he has long ceased to care

    what others see. I ask him

    his name， ask him what

    has brought him here， ask

    him to name

    his angers and his loves.

    He opens his mouth

    to speak-

    but just as his words hit

    the air， a bullet

    pierces his heart.

    I do not know

    the country

    of this man's birth. I only know

    that he is from

    the desert. He has the worn

    look of despair

    that only rainless days can give.

    That is all I know.

    He might have been born

    in Jerusalem. He might have been

    born in Egypt. He might

    have been the direct descendant

    of a pharaoh. His name

    might have been Ptolemy.

    His name might have been

    Moses. Or Jesus.

    Or Muhammad.

    He might have been a prophet.

    He might have been a common thief.

    He might have been a terrorist

    or he might have been just

    another man destined

    to be worn down

    by the ceaseless， callous storms.

    He might have come

    from a country called Afghanistan.

    He might have been from Mexico.

    He might have been

    looking for a well.

    His dreams were made of water.

    His lips touching

    water-yes-

    that is what he was dreaming.

    I can still hear the sound of the bullet.

    The man reappears.

    It does not matter

    that I do not want him

    in my dreams. He is

    searching through the rubble

    of what was once his house.

    There are no tears on his

    face. His lips still yearn

    for water.

    I wake. I begin to believe

    that the man has escaped

    from Auschwitz. Perhaps he sinned

    against the Nazis or because

    he was a collaborator or because

    he was Jewish

    or because he loved another man.

    He has come

    to the desert looking

    for a place he can call home.

    I fall asleep trying

    to give the man a name.

    The man is now

    walking toward a city

    that is no longer there.

    I am the man.

    I see clearly. I am

    awake now.

    It is me. It has taken me

    a long time to know this.

    I am a Palestinian.

    I am an Israeli.

    I am a Mexican.

    I am an American.

    I am a busboy in a tall building

    that is about to collapse.

    I am attending a Seder and I am

    tasting my last bitter

    herb. I am a boy who has learned

    all his prayers. I am bowing

    toward Mecca in a house

    whose roof will soon collapse

    on my small frame.

    I am a servant. I shine shoes

    and wash the feet

    of the rich. I am an illegal.

    I am a Mexican who hates all Americans.

    I am an American who hates all Mexicans.

    I am a Palestinian who hates all Israelis.

    I am an Israeli who hates all Palestinians.

    I am a Palestinian Jew who hates himself.

    I am dying of all this knowledge.

    I am dying of thirst.

    I am a river that will never know water again.

    I am becoming dust.

    I am walking toward my home.

    Mexico City？ Washington？

    Mecca？ Jerusalem？

    I don't know. I don't know.

    I am walking in the desert.

    I see that I am reaching a border.

    A bullet is piercing my heart.