I knew everything there is to know
by the time I turned five. Like rain—
it is for swaddling your bones in quilts
and listening, motionless,
If you do so close enough, it sounds a lot
like how the idea of God makes some people
believe in things unseen. I knew then
that I was made for blind faith.
The sky is an open book. It will whisper
its origin stories and saturate your shoulders
with its wisdom if you lean into it,
if you look up.
I was five and I knew
that nothing else could ever teach me more.
Twenty one calls me
and I, aflame with hope, will
pick up to greet it.
Affair with the Moon:
track its waxing and waning,
wonder what she sees.
I have forgiven
my heart for hating itself.
It beats to my song.
sleep through alarm, heat oatmeal,
call home. I miss it.
Stairwell, Randolph Hall,
early springtime, nineteenth year.
I haven’t stopped since.
I have learned to love
independence: baking bread,
folding warm laundry.
grazing cows, valley fog, here
I learned to be still.
My world in boxes—
exchanged for someplace unknown.
Strange faces, odd land.
Boxed drugstore hair dye,
eyeliner that could impale.
A girl undaunted.