Praisesong For My Neighbor in Texas

by Nomi Stone

Through the blinds of our

window, I see

a stranger, hunkered over

our yard, minutes 

passing—what’s he doing?

What I’m telling you

is I don’t feel safe here,

bullet shells &

Trump signs, people who don’t

like people like

us. Am I wrong? Last year

someone left

a dead cat on our stoop. We

scooped it away, 

buried it in the garden before

our son could see.

Because we’re gay? Jewish? Not

from here? But, friends,

it’s a new year. I remember my wife 

posted to everyone

on the local group. Come one

and all, she writes, 

gather the shishito peppers from

the neck of our

loaded plant. My son learned from

TV that there are bad

guys and good guys. No, 

I tell him, only

bad acts or good acts. Mistakes. 

and our ever

trying. I walk outside towards our

neighbor with a Tupperware,

here where his large hands ripple

gently in the stalks. Neither

of us want to hurt anyone and 

we don’t.

The next week, he sees my whole

tiny family 

sitting on the sidewalk. My wife and I

hold our son who is sobbing:

the pink pedal of his pink bike

has tumbled off

the frame. He is walking towards me

and he is walking towards you. Don’t you 

see? His arms are full of tools.