This man has
different skin,
different eyes,
turned down a bit
at the corners,
more shaded,
darker and deeper
than mine.

His mouth is fuller
and shapes the
sounds of our language
in ways that I can not,
in ways learned from another 
mother's tongue,
a tongue with which he prays
to a different god than I,
a tongue accustomed 
to a different palate 
of tastes, a world of dishes 
from a world away 
from the ways of my father's world
and he even lays his eyes 
upon other men
differently than I do,


this man who stands beside me is 
my brother, in every way he cannot 
otherwise be—
that does not matter—for here
in this place, at this time, 
with these meals that we share,
with these arms that we share,
this man is my brother because

this man 

is not 

that man.