Traversing Cohen

I want to write a letter to a woman from a time now past.

Cohen style. To the woman with eye-brow-tongue-piercings,

markings on her temple, dreadlocks and skin neither black,

nor white, on a rattling New York subway, 

in a crowded New York subway, 

complete strangers on a subway, sharing a pole,

one hand on top of the other, sudden push, a minute

touch, two pairs of corneas locked, from two cultures,

thousand miles apart, thousand legends and barbed wires

away, amidst fallen towers, water boarding, covered hair,

and cities in ashes, there was still recognition after all,

because that was only fifty years old human history, or 

maybe thousands still, the tale of the beginning long forgotten

in words, is present in our lungs and often escape, in a smile,

and creeping blush and averted eyes, trespassing the warnings

of the forefathers, breaking the taboo of the law makers

and a kidnapping takes place, of the memorable kind, for

memories are often lost or never lived but hardly ever 

forgotten at will.