These are the letters I leave behind me,
dull lines written for the censor’s eye.
There are no stories here, only headlines,
statements of fact shielding the truth.

But how can I write my life without politics
when each word placed is part of an equation?
Talk of my income will be translated
into an exact amount for blackmail or ransom;
Talk of our culture will be interpreted
as a covert call to arms.

I cannot tell you
that I am learning our language,
that I stand as a poet on a Western stage
crying out the loss of our country.

I cannot send you
photographs or cassette tapes.
You will not see my hair turn gray
or my voice change accent
as I become American.
I cannot even send you postcards because such pictures
are considered currency in our country
and will go home with the postman
to be traded for food.

I will write these words for you
knowing the line of people that stand between us:
my cousin who will sit beside you, translating,
the villagers hoping for news of their families,
and the government clerk who will slit open
this letter, like all the others,
checking each word, over and over,
the most sensitive audience I could ask for.