Nine Twelve Poem



Dedicated to Reina Yolanda Burdie

I was in Egypt nine months before the towers fell.
The people spoke to me in Arabic  Roh Rohi 
but I spoke back in English   so they called me “American”
             /I never called myself American. 
                 America never called me American – not without a hyphen. 

My best friend, Reina, doubles as a spirit guide. 
I tell her she is my peace, the sister I never had 
she says: Peace is thicker than Blood
said the trip to Egypt would change our lives     and she was right. 

After months of saving, we arrived just past midnight. Looking up, 
my face was shoved between the long freckled legs of the Milky Way. 
I saw night’s uterus, its bright neurons singing, its translucent scrotum, 
its organs living, a barely black skeleton stretching across a raving 
pulsating skinless sky. Beautifully broken, I wondered: 
                                                 who stole all of New York City’s stars? 

On the first day of our tour     the world stopped. 
All dropped to their knees in prayer    in unison.  
This was not a drill. Worship in 9D, so potent I didn’t understand
how in that moment that plot of land didn’t break away and float 
directly to the heavens.    I didn’t let myself cry.   Holding it burned.

The pyramids of Giza are not hidden deep in the desert. 
It’s sectioned off like Central Park in a mini city of its own. 
Hollywood hyped me up for a week’s journey camel ride. Lies. 
Stepping off the tour bus, I didn’t mind the 8 year olds running
up and picking our pockets in 76 languages. Dodging their quick 
tiny hands, I was breathless to be in the presence of geniuses. 
They spoke to me in Arabic /  I spoke back in English

          Where are you from? They asked.
          I’m Dominican and Saint Thomian.  
little faces, stumped… 
          but I was born in New York 

          Oh you’re American? They said.
My face, stumped… 
           /I never called myself American. 
                          America never called me American. 

Shopping at the market I let my peacock out. 
After being repeatedly hustled, I learned quickly 
how to bargain. Negotiating over a sterling silver letter opener, 
I accused the extra-large salesman of robbing us blind.
He insisted it was a good price. I insisted it was not. 
             Ladronaso! Reina, he’s robbing us! Sir, you’re robbing us! 
He flipped the fuck out, slamming his hairy baseball-mitt-sized fists   
yelling in his beautiful accent:
                 /again, with the “American” 
                        I never called myself American.
I wanted to correct him but instead     we ran for our lives. 
          When we caught our breath   we laughed about it for hours. 

Throughout the tour, everywhere we went we were mistaken 
for one of them. The people spoke to us in Arabic and we were 
flattered to be confused for magnificent Egyptians. 
Me! King Hatshepsut. The Goddess Isis. A woman of the Nile


In New York, on the days following 9/11, everyone hung American 
flags from their windows     like a plea   in unison. 
And everywhere I went    I was mistaken for one of them
Waiting on a downtown train platform, I was called a fucking terrorist 
by an extra-large white man, he spit where I was standing. A crowd 
gathered salivating vengeance, full blown fury staring me down with hate
dilating their eyes. I wanted to tell them: Peace is thicker than Blood   I didn’t 
let myself cry.          Holding it burned. 

I had just survived 9/11 and yet, right then, 
I had never been more afraid for my life. 

And even when it could’ve saved me 
I couldn’t bring myself to say: 
           I’m American.      Even though I am.



Anacaona Rocio Milagro is a poet born, raised, and living in NYC. She earned an MFA at NYU’s low-residency program in Paris and an MPH at Columbia University. She’s been published in The BreakBeat Poets LatiNext anthology, Narrative, the Smithsonian Museum’s 9/11 archives, and LitHub, to name a few places. Find her on Instagram @poet.anacaona.

[Purchase Issue 24 here.] 

Nine Twelve Poem

Related Posts

Chair against the window


I visit with a friend as she works to empty her mother’s house, who died just days before Christmas, and each object holds a tiny piece of Susan. I come away with several treasures lovely (a hand knitted scarf, a clay donkey to hold my garlic) and practical.

image of two cats looking out of a window

October 2023 Poetry Feature

I am whatever the opposite of avid / is in these circumstances, above / the Arctic Circle on sabbatical, / another of my journeys, on an island / in the shallow Barents Sea, and bring / down a clamor on me by declining / in my ignorance to carry one / of the bear rifles with me everywhere.