Three a.m.

Three a.m.

by Jill McDonough

Our cabdriver tells us how Somalia is better

than here because in Islam we execute murderers.

So, fewer murders. But isn't there civil war

there now? Aren't there a lot of murders?

Yes, but in general it's better. Not

now, but most of the time. He tells us about how

smart the system is, how it's hard to bear

false witness. We nod. We're learning a lot.

I say—once we are close to the house—I say, What

about us? Two women, married to each other.

Don't be offended, he says, gravely. But a man

with a man, a woman with a woman: it would be

a public execution. We nod. A little silence along

the Southeast Corridor. Then I say, Yeah,

I love my country. This makes him laugh; we all laugh.

We aren't offended, says Josey. We love you. Sometimes

I feel like we're proselytizing, spreading the Word of Gay.

The cab is shaking with laughter, the poor man

relieved we're not mad he sort of wants us dead.

The two of us soothing him, wanting him comfortable,

wanting him to laugh. We love our country,

we tell him. And Josey tips him. She tips him well.