Two Rivers

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.