Francine forgives the figs for not growing. Francine wants to believe in waiting. I make tea, she writes, then sleep. I want my heart open so the birds can see. My arms are bare. Francine keeps fruit in a jar in her purse in the car. Somehow, my body catches sunlight, she writes, and I’m surprised. Francine asks St. Gabriel to keep her from knowing. Inside, she writs, there’s a door. I don’t want to hurt myself anymore. Francine forgives what keeps growing, what doesn’t.