I have space in my heart
for two trees, uncoiling.

They look as though they’ve been twisted in summer,
in peace. In mourning and defiance.

I see them in the Saturdays we spent
breathing out flies, sucking sand into our throats.

The air smelled of honeysuckle and weeds
and I found myself looking up

to where God might be. The times I bowed down in prayer
and imagined Him noticing.

No, I think, this was never conventional. The land
that I dream of – the love I envision.

Moons I hold in my palms,
actions carefully collected and swept under rugs.

If the sun and moon
balanced on my shoulders I think I would melt under their weight.

Oh, sweet gravity. Faerie days – I plant my trees under you. I run my fingers
through your sea. I pray and prostrate

and find the ground rushing
to meet me.