What the heart forgets, the spirit will return.


I love you.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
This is cliche. It’s all cliche.
No matter.
It’s still a frothy magic my body swells
out of this metric heart
and these rank bowels,
this hungry mouth
and these fingertips itching to find
the parts of you I’ve neglected.

I’ve missed you.
The low light of winter
rushed early through my ribcage,
carrying away everything I thought mine.
I’ve been an empty warehouse.
I’ve wandered the long perimeter
hearing only the echoes of my own breathing.
I’ve gathered dust.
How could this be my home?
I’ve missed you.

But today the light started up again.
When evening came buttery golden,
it crossed all the western sills
and touched the table, my cup,
the clothing iron, a cat’s dish,
and then I saw it touching me,
my skin glowing under a warm band of light,
and I remembered
I had forgotten to be here,
but there was this light brushing my skin
saying wake up wake up wake up
like it knew, too, that I had been sleeping
since the sun first swung too low that last day in October.

The sun woke me up,
I drank it in,
I am its cup.
Even if I forget myself,
there is no forgetting.

I was told by someone once
what the mind forgets, the heart remembers,
to which I now add
what the heart forgets, the spirit will return.
I’ve lost my faith every winter for no less than 40 years,
and, so gently that it’s nearly missed,
the world returns itself to me
again and again and again.
Wake up wake up wake up, it says.
I love you I love you I love you

I love you.

April is National Poetry Month, so I’m publishing poetry for NaPoWriMo throughout the month.