Put all that you’ve gathered,
the heart from your family war
with it’s moss edged in deep,
in the last place you touched,
your body remembers.
How your hands, when pressed to light,
do not show through.
It will be this way for a long
when you find that mark,
having endured, uninvited
in the real world-
no one will ever again sing to you
the song that you had never been sung.
You’ll see light has not poured in
because it is pooling out, bit by bit,
from inside the body,
the places you can remember, anchor down-
tie a knot into to keep in place-
safe, even, in the grooves of it’s divide.