by Lee Briccetti
Even as a girl I knew the heart was not a valentine；
it was wet， like a leopard frog on a lily pad，
had long tube roots
anchoring it in place.
And smaller roots like lupine and marigold
and bleeding hearts‘ roots I traced with my finger
while transplanting in the garden.
Jesus had a thousand bloody hearts
planted in our flowerbeds beneath pink flowers；
they could see us through the ground.
I had a book about a girl who lived in the earth
near the tree roots， who cut off her finger
and used it as a key. I wondered if I could love like that.
I studied the painting of His chest peeled back
to show light around the Sacred Heart.
And in the bedroom at my grandmother‘s where I slept
against the trees， I was the spirit
inside the room‘s heart， my life inside me，
something that could leave through the window quietly.
I heard the fibrous closing and closing
inside my body and prayed to stay alive.
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