Even as a girl I knew the heart was not a valentine；

    it was wet， like a leopard¹ 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 bloody² 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.