"And I will come to meet you
          As far as Cho-fu-Sa."
               –The River Merchant's Wife by Li Po (trans. Ezra Pound)

I will not come far to meet you,
but rather you should crawl upon
your knees over asphalt,
through cornfields, quarries,
stand teetering atop the mesa
and cry to the pipits for directions.

Taking you to the train station
Monday morning, walking and waving
along the platform, pacing a train
that could not get away fast enough,
left my body in revolt, perspiring
icy skin in the burgeoning heat of May.

No one opened my door for days,
while you retraced the path
of the slaves, stealing apples ripe to bursting
from trees not your own.
Who patched the blisters on your heels,
or did you let them seep free?

I will not write you until you write me first—
long missives, a word for every pebble underfoot.
Show me how the horizon melts into the road
outside Raleigh in July,
how barefoot boys in Waycross
beat the yellow grass with sticks.

Write the story of the little black girl,
how she flashed a peace sign at you in Charleston,
covered her mouth
while I cleared out the cupboards,
made room for the new tenant,
bore our children to a new country.

Don't cry when you find me gone,
I left clues, shiny things to catch your eye:
rattle snake skins, shoelaces, and peacock feathers.
I will not come far to meet you.
Only far enough
for you to find me.