Tomorrow he would leave again
and I thought why not remove
his clothes once more, fold his shirt
in the familiar ceremony of undress.
I tugged a button from its hole
as if opening had always been
this easy. I hurried my fingers
to his shoulder blades where I once
imagined a thread could unravel
the tight symbols tied inside of him.
We were following the line of dropping
clothes when he pulled away to touch
the cover draped across the bed,
rows of fabric I had pieced together,
small imperfect stars. I believed
in the seam our bodies made,
but when in the morning he put on
his uniform, it was what I'd sewn
myself that held, miraculous,
our warmth—his face now a pattern
indecipherable if viewed up close.
And even at a distance, I couldn't
pick out more than his blurring
shape, a vague field of color,
those strips of ribbon at his chest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem