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.