Sacred Heart

　　by Lee Briccetti

　　 Even as a girl I knew the heart was not a valentine；

　　 it was wet， like a leopard frog on a lily pad，

　　 had long tube roots

　　 anchoring it in place.

　　 And smaller roots like lupine and marigold

　　 and bleeding hearts' roots I traced with my finger

　　 while transplanting in the garden.

　　 Jesus had a thousand bloody hearts

　　 planted in our flowerbeds beneath pink flowers；

　　 they could see us through the ground.

　　 I had a book about a girl who lived in the earth

　　 near the tree roots， who cut off her finger

　　 and used it as a key. I wondered if I could love like that.

　　 I studied the painting of His chest peeled back

　　 to show light around the Sacred Heart.

　　 And in the bedroom at my grandmother's where I slept

　　 against the trees， I was the spirit

　　 inside the room's heart， my life inside me，

　　 something that could leave through the window quietly.

　　 I heard the fibrous closing and closing

　　 inside my body and prayed to stay alive.

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