Two Countries
by Naomi Shihab Nye
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.
* * * *
I just want to say I love you to you. And give a big hug to you and you, because I know you are anticipating having sucky days, and to you because you deserve so much better. And to you because I have been a terrible correspondent but I miss you terribly. And to you because you inspire me to the best sort of madness. And to you for being the hostess with the mostess. And to you for the rimming sugar. *g*
Today, naturally, will be spent helping out at the kids' school Valentine's Day parties. Tonight my parents are babysitting but it's supposed to snow five inches so I'm not sure whether we're going out to dinner, going to the movies or staying home and folding laundry while watching old Avengers episodes. Really either way is fine; I'm not sure I want to see The Hours or Adaptation on a night when I'm supposed to be feeling romantic, though I do want to see them while I have the chance.
Tomorrow I will change it.
No comments:
Post a Comment