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.

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