I loved your last email and have a response, but right now
my feet are touching long island sound and this weight
in my chest is trying to decide what it’s name is: roots
of despair or beautiful-burst-children. There’s a distant-me,
8 years old, trying to find herself, and the earth
already tastes of God and my bones. How
to decipher one pull from the next; how
have I not spun myself to death?