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, swirling 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 Hip like a city, gleaming dome of the mosque 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, spiny 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