by Greg Grant
I still use that handpainted bookmark you brought me from the Orient. Like me, it's much worse for hard use, the string gone, the top ripped, jagged, bearing my name in two languages- one I know, one I don't. Ten years and thousands of miles later it still links me to you, and I'm flattered that in some artist's stall in the Orient you thought of me. My unspoken thanks for your gift is that even now when I use it I think of you and how I've managed to keep my place in the world even though you're far away. softly, I call your name in two languages- one I know, one I don't.
Back to Poetry page