their own memories of clouds and sky,
they float in the bowl along side
I feel for them, for the chick peas--
I know what it's like to wonder
how many times I'll have
to go under to come out clean.
I know what it's like to be forced
to reconstitute, to become
what you once were or
as close to it as you can get.
And when I'm baptized, I too, see
the ghosts of my old self rise up.
They ask me what I would wish
for if I were new again?
I tell them, it doesn't matter
because their doom is certain
while I, newly alive, may become
any dish I'd like.