there is a paper cut
on the skin of my soul, the past
beats inside me like a second heart. it is
easy to find god in the middle of the night— i
hold her like a doorknob, ask her if she’s homesick and
she, with her many mouths, says
nothing. i sit
on the shoreline of my self
telling god you can have my heart only if
you promise to carry it in your arms
from room to room, not in your pocket
but between your palms, like a face.
part of me still believes i can walk
on the earth like a child that knows poems
by heart.
Rowan Tate is a creative and curator of beauty. She reads nonfiction nature books, the backs of shampoo bottles, and sometimes minds.