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The Other

Maybe she still lives in a foreign country  
Writing letters in seven languages  
I never learned; her mind infinite  
As the volumes in Borges’ fantastical library.  
When II hear her sing, the night fills  
With footsteps and salt perfume.  
She’s asked for an envelope of dirt from home  
Though she wears the dust of a hundred cities with doves.
I left my suitcases at the train station
To enter the museum where her painting of an orchard
Hangs beside a Rembrandt and Vermeer.
Sh
e stands at the end of a narrow road
Between two rows of linden trees
Stretching out her clean, clairvoyant hands.

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“The Other” originally appeared in “Ellipsis” 

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