You said God is this close, then slapped your 
palm across your eyes. I thought about how 
your hand was not only too close to see,  
but also preventing your sight. I know  
that metaphors aren’t always so neat.  

Imagining your pain seven years ago would have  
sunk me. Then, like an ant within a cocoa  
leaf nestled between bits of sand and twig,  
I curled in my closet, like you did when your heart  
broke, which you told me in a poem.  

Signs of persistence: a wedding dress made of  
bandages, wisdom teeth budding despite war, and  
an army nurse who saved two soldiers on opposing sides. 
Her explanation: there is not one heart for love and  
one for hatred. There is only one heart for both.  

Facts I know because my parents told me:  
prayer may not pour water on parched fields 
but it can nourish a dry soul, there is pleasure in 
falling at God’s feet; time is precious, look forward, 
say please, and even more, pray thank you.  

think of now is the night in stained glass, the same 
night we stared at a red moon from the roof of a 
laboratory, the various rooves climbing, and the  
certainty with which I know you will recover is the  
certainty with which I remember: sharp, exploding, sure.