Two Rivers
A Poem
In the grey country I don’t leave my shoes at the door, But I soften my name for strangers, I dress for grey weather, This grey pallid weather, Still my displaced sillhouette never changes.
I have folded my tongue into careful shapes, Redrawn the borders of my breath, But my shadow is brown, Cardamom-brown, and speaks with a dusty accent.
In rooms full of greyer people, I keep my face beneath a face. If faith must master discretion, Can 'home' ever be such a place?
But the moment I slip the periphery, She is already walking east, toward a language that rolls off the tongue, toward two rivers that remember me.
