I found the tendrils of your fingers
wound around mine like prayers
woven into the clothing of prayer.
and fled with you in my arms
along the highway of snakes,
concealing you from streetlights
and stars, from dogs barking in alleys.
Because nothing should speak of this
because no one would believe me—
they’d shut me away
in a room without views—
I went without words, with you
in a bundle, and took you out in the cold,
stone light of the chapel to discover
this strange grasp. Memory had exhumed
at last what I’d sung to by candle.
All-grown-up, a shadow danced on the walls,
gathered in the corner, scattering
the shells of acorns I’d eaten through.