Civilized / by Lily Greenberg

Foreign films wash over me and I am
untouchable. Mine slip south, but the lips
of Rwanda stand ajar—their wails twist
around my neck, but I don’t flinch. Can hands
such as mine claim this uncivilized din?
Surely not. I blow an extravagant
sneeze and marvel at the privileged phlegm—
how it accents my olive skin! To grip
this film and wrench it from my vision,
to see the globe through a new prescription—
all I know is superiority,

the sordid racist I was raised to be.