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131 The Plumber’s Poem Zara Houshmand That’s my hair that’s wrapped around your snake, Ben Yakov. It’s filthy, but it’s mine. Seventy-nine dollars and fifty cents. A plumber earns more than a writer does, and we both laugh. I don’t mind, write the check. My name? Iran, I mumble. Your accent undresses Israel. Our eyes meet, apologize, just you and I for history for all the politicians’ lies and for the real things too. The unspeakable things. Are you happy? I ask, but really I’m asking What do you miss? (Green almonds and the smell of kerosene; the language of my dreams.) But you say Yes, and anyway, where else could I go? ...

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