said her heart was full of antlers, 
oak spider webs reaching for the 
right keys in her voice box,
but they always came up sharp
so she spoke with her hands.

said her fingertips held more stories
than rosaries, and drew maps to
the homes she had in every corner
of every country, not forgetting
any windows or flower beds.

said her head was an aviary without
enclosures, said her only mothers
were nature and nightfall, said the
only songs she knew were ocean
tide and western meadowlark.

said we didn’t walk in our bare feet
enough to know what we have.