Two Countries

    Skin remembers how long the years grow

    when skin is not touched， a gray tunnel

    of singleness， feather lost from the tail

    of a bird， swirling¹ onto a step，

    swept away by someone who never saw

    it was a feather. Skin ate， walked，

    slept by itself， knew how to raise a

    see-you-later hand. But skin felt

    it was never seen， never known as

    a land on the map， nose like a city，

    hip² like a city， gleaming dome³ of the mosque⁴

    and the hundred corridors of cinnamon and rope.

    Skin had hope， that's what skin does.

    Heals over the scarred place， makes a road.

    Love means you breathe in two countries.

    And skin remembers——silk， spiny⁵ grass，

    deep in the pocket that is skin's secret own.

    Even now， when skin is not alone，

    it remembers being alone and thanks something larger

    that there are travelers， that people go places

    larger than themselves.