(You will keep those angels I gave you.)
But you for you- for daring to love me- your shoulders will,
under the touch of unexpected mercy, straighten.
Your springs will be longer than the life of the cherry
trees and your summers will be heavy with rain,
thunder down the dust of your dragging steps and
cause your hands to open under your umbrella in
wonder at mist rising from the pavement.
If your heart never opens to me again, still
the trains will come on time, stopping before your
patiently aligned feet and the doors will slide
smooth for your entrance, the seats to cradle
in lulling rhythm your quietly composed body,
and I will pray that the paths my hands have
traced over your skin become scars of a battle
you won, after wrestling long and alone with Jacob's
angel, those marks now will never leave you
desolate and following that thought I will come
at last to the reality of you, separate and sovereign,
a country I gave up the rights to.
Expatriate, I will watch from my farther shore
and bless those wooden chopsticks nestled in
agile hands unthinkingly before the tv and
bless the bed that made up, will rest you in
each night from now without me, waking to
perform your duties exactly and resigned
now to order and necessity.
(And as for you-
may your segmented heart consign
each guarded territory to the truth and from the
fear of unity may you be released into the awful
realization of love. And for giving me my poetry,
I will never cease to be grateful.)
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