a husband and a wife

i

(the wife)

i have come to the border

to remember your touch.

to bring to you

within me, a place of

home.

i will cross over

leaving for now the

country where

sleeps the people we've

sprung from.

the river's water is warm

the current uncertain,

the bottom falls away

and i stroke, a steady

determined stroke.

if i make it to your side

we will live in

another language.

deeply in prayer and

struggle, driven by

our daily need to remain

in communion.

driven by the dream

of standing with you

and loving in our

native tongue.

ii

(the husband)

i have let my thoughts

return to the border,

stationed them

vigilant for the changes

in atmosphere heralding your arrival.

i should be jealous of the waters,

touching you completely

as you swim to meet me.

but i am grateful,

that soon i will feel your wet body

the depth of your breathing

the pulse in your neck. i should

recollect as sensation how

your eyes look at me.

i have prayed beneath the brightest

star to see your wet footprints and my dry,

heading away from the river,

together at last.

iii

(a husband and wife walk away from the river)

we move at night,

hidden in speed and distance,

at the mercy of coyote and snake.

you carry bundled

bits of a lost country, still

wet, that one day we might put

safe above us sleeping.

when i was young to have come

this way would have been easier,

but then, i didn't have you.

now, not knowing your shoulders

arms and face, is faint.

walking the desert alone,

purposeless.

i pray again beneath bright stars

to see the approach of conclusion

to sleep with both eyes.

to eat familiar food

drink familiar drink.

to be where

we can speak freely

in our native tongue

of what we love.