Where can you be soft, she says,

to the jaw locked on snatched back

words, splintered bone of grief

to these eyes wanting water yet stung

with the wary wait, these shoulders —

a country of others’ sighs, dust

of wayside dreams.

Where can you be soft, she asks,

of these sharpened ears, match-struck

chest, this quaking world on edge.

If you let go, the body

will give, open

up, unraveled tongue

and waterfall spine, flow

of heat and truth.

Naming it isn’t necessary, what finds

the splayed throat, upturned heart.

Here you are safe, resting

in this motion. Here you are all

yours and all you need to be —

this poem, lines on a mat

facing home, a flower

in split stone.